If You Look to Your Left, You Will See
by thingthingthingness
Summary: Alfred, Jimmy suspected, was already 'part of the family' in Carson's mind – like having a long-dead relative who helped some long-dead Countess pull up her knickers every day made him somehow more real than Jimmy or something. Modern AU. Jimmy/Thomas.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note/Disclaimer:** I don't have any excuses for this. I never have any excuses.

* * *

Downton Abbey was open all year long, but summer was, of course, its busiest season. Summer brought both school tours and Americans, and meant that Mr Carson (who was in charge of staff) took on extra people for a few months, only to let them go as autumn rolled around and Downton Abbey sank back into a state resembling hibernation.

Of course, there was enough interest, even in the winter months, that Downton was able to keep going (though on a greatly reduced scale) – and Jimmy Kent didn't have any intention of being one of the people who was let go. As work went, rattling off a fifty-five minute guided tour several times a day while pointing at some chandeliers and answering the same stupid questions over and over again…well, it was still _work, _but it was a sight better than a lot of other jobs, and he knew it. Accordingly, he'd made up his mind to hang on to this one.

The problem was, Mr Carson had not made up _his _mind. At least, not officially – though Jimmy had a strong suspicion that if it came down to him or Alfred, the other recently-hired tour guide, Mr Carson would have no trouble deciding.

It wasn't fair. Jimmy was polite and charming to both tourists and staff, and had polished his potted history of Downton, until his words gleamed like silver. Alfred meanwhile, stumbled over the simplest queries (who needed to _pause_ before directing someone to the _toilets?)_ and resembled a ginger English Lurch besides.

But Mr Carson still clearly preferred him.

"Of course he does. You're a blow-in," Ivy told him. Ivy did workshops in the kitchens and sometimes the traditional cottages, spending most of her day showing school-children and tour groups how to make bread and churn butter. (This was probably why she had adopted a strict wheat and dairy-free diet in her own daily life. "There's days I can't even _look_ at a sandwich," she had said to Jimmy once).

"A blow-in?" Jimmy repeated.

"Not from around here. Most people at Downton, they're from nearby – you know, Thirsk, or Ripon. I've been coming here on school tours and weekends since I were this high," she said, fluttering her hand to rest at thigh-height.

Jimmy ignored this. "So, what – no matter how good I am, he doesn't like me because I'm not _local? _Alfred's not exactly the boy next door either."

Ivy shrugged. "Mr Carson's very traditional. And Alfred's aunt's been working here years."

"But not everyone's from here _originally_ – Bates isn't, is he? Or Mrs Hughes?"

"I don't know," Ivy said. She frowned, either at the holes he'd poked in her argument, or at being pressed on a subject she'd never given much thought to before. "They don't really count, I don't think. I mean, they've been part of the place for so long, it's like they've always been here."

Jimmy gritted his teeth but made himself smile. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to stick around then. Become part of the family." _Part of the furniture, more likely, _he thought.

In spite of his glib words, he felt the pinch of apprehension. Besides the aforementioned aunt who'd been working in Downton Abbey for years, one of Alfred's long-ago relations had actually been a servant way back when Downton Abbey'd still had servants. The relative had been lady's maid to the Countess and sent vinegary letters to her family every other week. Alfred had once brought a bundle of these to Mr Carson, who'd pored over them with reverence.

Alfred, Jimmy suspected, was already 'part of the family' in Carson's mind – like having a long-dead relative who helped some long-dead Countess pull up her knickers every day made him somehow more _real _than Jimmy or something.

Ivy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said suddenly, "I wouldn't worry about Mr Carson not liking you. I mean…there's loads of other people who like you a lot." Her eyes flicked to his, and then away again.

"I hope some of those people are better looking than Mr Carson," Jimmy said, voice smooth and meaningful. Though as nice-looking as Ivy was, he said it mostly because it was expected. It mattered a lot more what Mr Carson thought of him. Ivy didn't employ him, after all.

"Wouldn't you like to know!" she said, looking pleased.

It was very obvious that Ivy fancied him. But workplace romances were trouble – they never lasted, in Jimmy's opinion, and even before they got messy they interfered with the job. Alfred spent half his day thinking up excuses to pop into the kitchens. He never seemed to consider how awkward the whole thing could get. The three of them, Ivy, Jimmy and Alfred, were sharing a small house in the village, to save on costs. It was a straightforward, simple arrangement that would inevitably become _messy _if actual relationships were involved.

Of course, _Ivy_ didn't know about Jimmy's feelings on workplace romances, and he still flirted with her sometimes – reflexively. It was worth it, if only for the look on Alfred's face. Jimmy was not averse to stepping on someone's Achilles heel…especially if that heel belonged to Alfred.

He did other things too, of course. Things designed to get him into Mr Carson's good graces. Like asking him about the history of the house.

"Surely you have _some _idea of its history, James – unless you've been merely _parroting _the tour information."

"No – I didn't mean that. I just meant – the house has such a long and fascinating story, and I feel like we barely touch on it in the tours. I'd like to learn more."

Mr Carson was completely devoted to the estate, and never passed up a chance to talk about the deeply boring happenings that had transpired within Downton's walls in past decades. Surely this interest in Downton's history was the sort of initiative guaranteed to find favour with him?

Apparently not. Mr Carson's thick eyebrows beetled together, and he said, "Then may I suggest that some _research_ might be in order?"

Pompous old codger. If _Alfred_ had been the one asking, Jimmy would bet he'd have had a different reception. After that, Mr Carson kept finding these thick books on stately homes and the lives of servants on country estates, and handing them over to Jimmy with an arch, amused look to his mouth, like he'd caught Jimmy out or something.

Besides flip through the books and desultorily note a few dreary details in case Carson ever asked him, there really wasn't a lot that Jimmy could do. Other than be competent and professional at his job (well, moreso than Alfred anyway), help out with any extra work around the estate, and hope for the best.

That was, until the day Alfred appeared ten minutes late after his lunch. "You took your time," Jimmy said, wondering where Mr Carson was whenever Alfred decided to skip out on his duties.

"Sorry – it's just…Mr Crawley was in Mr Carson's office," Alfred said.

"I don't see why that's surprising," Jimmy told him. "Crawley's always around." Matthew Crawley was part of the Family. He'd married the eldest daughter, and he was forever nosing around the estate. He'd even stood in on one or two of Jimmy's tours.

"No, but – they were _arguing_," Alfred said.

"Him and Mr Carson?" Jimmy suddenly became interested. "About what?"

Of course, Alfred chose just then to have an attack of conscience. "I don't know – maybe I shouldn't…I didn't mean to listen, you know" –

"Yeah, but you _did_," Jimmy said impatiently, "So come on – let's hear it."

"Mr Crawley just said a lot of things about needing to maximise Downton's potential, and trying to keep up with the times" –

Jimmy whistled, trying to imagine the effect of those words on Mr Carson, whose whole life had maintained a stately ceremonial tread several steps behind the times. "You should have stuck around – you could have been a murder witness."

Alfred made a face. "Ha ha. Anyway, he's sending someone – Mr Crawley is. He said Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes need help running the place, especially if they're going to be making changes. And Mr Crawley's going to be busy when the baby comes, so he won't be around as much."

"Who's he sending?"

"I don't know. Never heard of him." Alfred leaned in a bit. "I'll tell you something though – Mr _Carson_ knew who it was before Mr Crawley even said his name – and he didn't seem pleased at all."

Jimmy could sense it, just hovering a fingertip's reach away. _Opportunity_. The _how_ and _why_ of it was unclear, but the feeling _itself_ was undeniable, a kind of thrumming just beneath his skin.

"Well, all right then," he said casually. "Tell us the name of this bloke who's got Mr Carson quaking in his boots."

"It's a Mr Barrow," Alfred said. "I think he used to work here before."

"Mr Barrow," Jimmy repeated, almost to himself, carefully turning the name over in his mouth. The held-breath feeling didn't go away.

Opportunity.

Definitely.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much to Ties and Tea and the other guest who reviewed - it made my day :)

* * *

Ivy was no help. "Thomas Barrow? Never heard of him. Must have been before my time," she said, as she swung herself down into the seat next to Jimmy in the _Downton Café_. She nicked a chip off Alfred's plate, and he smiled dopily at her.

Daisy stopped adjusting the sandwiches in the display fridge and came out from behind the counter. "Thomas is coming back?"

"You know him?" Jimmy asked.

"Of course I know him," Daisy said, but she addressed herself chiefly to Alfred. "It's not like Ivy's the only person in the world who works here, you know."

Alfred stared at her, nonplussed.

"What was he like, then?" Jimmy prodded. "Thomas Barrow."

Daisy wrinkled her nose. "He was…I don't know…he was just Thomas, really."

"Oh well, that's good to know. That he wasn't impersonating someone else."

Ivy laughed at Jimmy's joke, and Alfred laughed because Ivy laughed. All of it made Jimmy's teeth itch.

Daisy's cheeks were red, but she persisted, still stubbornly focusing on Alfred. "He was funny – well, he could be. Sometimes. And clever, Mrs Patmore used to say."

"I think you'll find 'too clever for his own good,' were my words," Mrs Patmore said, abruptly appearing behind Daisy and making her jump. "So don't go misquoting me, madam. Will I ever forget the time I let him convince me to change suppliers? _Oh, don't you worry about a thing, Mrs Patmore – I'll take care of you, Mrs Patmore, they __said__ they'd be delivering first thing this morning, Mrs Patmore._ Of course, he was just a tour guide then, and more fool me for listening to him, but still…That was the weekend we had all those students down…and there was I, without so much as a ladyfinger to me name."

Mrs Patmore paused, as did everyone else, slightly dizzied by her volubility. "So Thomas is back, is he? Well, we _are _in for some interesting times, and no mistake. Come _along _Daisy, the floor's not going to sweep itself."

Daisy sighed, looking over her shoulder at the retreating bustle of Mrs Patmore. Before moving off, she paused, eyes flicking between Alfred and his plate. Then her hand reached out, and she took a chip.

Alfred made a displeased noise, and batted at her fingers. "Hey – paws off! This is for me – and, and Ivy," he added hastily. "If you're that hungry, get your own."

"Alfred's very possessive about his chips," Ivy said, grabbing some more off his plate. "Here, take some of mine instead."

Daisy snatched her hand back. "No thanks." Jimmy took in the wounded look on her face, which completely failed to penetrate Alfred's consciousness, absorbed as he was in watching Ivy salt her chips across the table. Jimmy suppressed an eyeroll. _Messy._

* * *

Miss O' Brien, Alfred's aunt, seemed pleased when she heard the news. "Back?" was all she said, but her lips moved into something that could have been classified as a smile.

"You know him then?"

"You might say that," Miss O' Brien said.

"What's he like, then?" Jimmy asked, careful to sound bored, as if he were just making idle conversation. "Slave-driver or a soft touch?"

"Opportunist," Miss O' Brien's mouth quirked into that same restrained smile, "I think you'll find." Her eyes flicked to Alfred. "And it might do some of us good to follow his example."

"I do my work," Alfred said. "There's no-one can say I don't pull my own weight."

_Yeah, all the way to the pub, _Jimmy thought uncharitably. He stared out the window, across the grounds of Downton, pretending to have tuned out of the conversation.

"There's more to getting ahead than just doing your job," Miss O' Brien said to Alfred in a low voice. "And no-one knows that better than Thomas. You'd do well to try and hitch your star to him."

"I've got enough to do without playing up to this Mr Barrow. Besides, Mr Carson doesn't like him." Alfred spoke with the incontrovertible assurance of one who has the ultimate last word.

"I wouldn't be so concerned with Mr Carson," Miss O' Brien said. "Things are changing round here, mark my words – and if you do right by Thomas, he'll see _you_ right."

* * *

"Oh, joy of joys. What _have_ we done in our past lives to deserve this good fortune?" Mr Bates in the gift shop said at the news, raising his eyebrows at Anna ("Just Anna – everyone calls me that. Mrs Bates, well…it's a bit formal, isn't it?").

"Something very wicked, no doubt," Anna said, but they were doing that thing they did, smiling at each other with their eyes. They looked far too happy for two people who were surrounded on all sides by ceramic sheep, in Jimmy's opinion.

He managed to mask his distaste for the soppiness of it all, however, hiding his face as he lowered the box of small replica china cottages onto the counter.

"I take it Mr Barrow's not your favourite person then?" he said, dusting off his hands.

"Remember, I shall be very put out if you say he is," Anna said to Mr Bates, mock-sternly, and they _twinkled _at each other again. Jimmy tried not to gag.

"I think you can rest assured that he is not at the top of that particular list," Mr Bates told her. To Jimmy, he said, "Thomas and I have had our differences, but I'm willing to let bygones be bygones if he is. I'm hardly the man to deny someone a second chance."

Jimmy didn't know what that meant, but that was Mr Bates for you. If he had a bad word for anyone, it was only a cryptic one, and Jimmy didn't have any patience for that right now.

* * *

By the time Mr Carson called the meeting, everyone knew already. That didn't stop him from making a speech.

He droned on and on about stability and continuity and Mr Crawley's vision of Downton (" – a well-intentioned vision, if not, well…hm"), and the duty of every employee to uphold the spirit of Downton, regardless of any changes. Mrs Hughes stood behind him and smothered a smile as Daisy wondered aloud, "Is this about Thomas?"

Mr Carson stopped short. "As I was _saying_, Mr Crawley's plans will necessitate some…_changes_." He said the word as if it were obscene. "As some of you might already have heard," Mr Carson glared in Daisy's direction, eyebrows thick and fierce, "Mr Barrow will be returning to Downton to – help with this."

"What changes will these be, Mr Carson?" Alfred asked.

Mr Carson sighed, "Those, Alfred, will soon become apparent, and I have no wish to discuss them at this time. I _will _say that we at Downton may consider ourselves fortunate to have escaped the indignity of an attached _theme park."_

"That," came a voice from the side, "is an excellent idea, Mr Carson. Though perhaps just a little too ambitious at the moment."

The speaker was a tall man with dark hair, and he sauntered over to the assembled group. He was smart-looking, handsome. He held himself straight, like he was _somebody_. "I shall certainly bear it in mind for future reference though," he informed Mr Carson. He didn't smile, but his amusement was obvious.

"Thomas," Mr Carson said, and the man acknowledged him with a nod. Mr Carson turned to face them again. "For those of you who may not have had the," he hesitated briefly, "pleasure, this is Mr Barrow. I have no doubt that he will make his presence felt in short order."

Mr Barrow nodded as Miss O' Brien as he took in the crowd of employees, cataloguing who he knew, and who he did not, and she nodded back. Next to her, Jimmy made sure to smile, very deliberately at Thomas Barrow. His mind was already made up, and anyone who could put the wind up old Carson like that, well, he was all right in Jimmy's books.

Mr Barrow had very light-coloured eyes, and they paused on Jimmy for a moment, and looked him up and down – taking note of him, Jimmy thought, and was pleased. Mr Barrow wasn't the only one who could make an impression.


	3. Chapter 3

As Mr Carson had predicted, it didn't take long for Mr Barrow to make his presence felt.

"Don't mind me," he had said that first day, with a smile that was anything but reassuring. "I'll just be standing back and observing for the moment. Getting my bearings. You won't even know I'm here."

Behind Mr Barrow, Mr Carson had coughed disbelievingly.

And, as much as Jimmy didn't like to admit it, Mr Carson was right. It was impossible _not _to notice Mr Barrow. Maybe it was because Mr Barrow himself seemed to notice _everything. _He'd tailed Jimmy and Alfred twice as they'd given their tours, and Jimmy had been very aware of those sharp eyes following his every movement. He hadn't let it affect him – or at least, if it had, he'd used it to his advantage, putting on what had to be his best performance to date. He'd been knowledgeable, attentive, kind to pregnant women and that one immensely tall, gawping tosser who'd put him in mind of Alfred.

Crawley'd done the same a time or two, taken in a tour. But this was different somehow. Crawley'd looked attentive and interested, as if he were drinking in every word Jimmy was saying, and he'd had some encouraging words afterwards, rather like an overly earnest schoolteacher. Jimmy had smiled and nodded at him appreciatively, and internally rolled his eyes.

Mr Barrow was different. While he kept his gaze fixed on Jimmy throughout, any changes to the impassive expression on his face were mere flickers that Jimmy couldn't read. It had spurred him onwards, determined to impress Mr Barrow, even if his competition was only Alfred.

The thing was, Jimmy had the feeling Thomas Barrow was distinctly difficult to impress. Although, on the other hand, he had no compunction about announcing things that displeased him – such as the gift shop.

"I would have thought you'd have enough to take care of, without taking an interest in us," Mr Bates had said, sounding, for such a saintly man, close to exasperation.

"Well, you thought wrongly then, didn't you?" Mr Barrow had said, smartly. "And, from what I can see, this place could do with a little more order. How's anyone supposed to find anything in this mess?"

Mess was a bit of an overstatement, Jimmy thought, even as he and Alfred diligently began to organize the new stuffed cows and the personalized handbells on their shelves.

Anna obviously agreed. "It's a gift shop, Thomas, not an assembly line. We find that people like to take their time and browse." At the same time, she put a hand on Mr Bates' arm, keeping the peace.

Mr Barrow had smiled one of those polite, means-nothing smiles. "Well, why don't we try it my way, and we'll see how it works out."

It was not a suggestion.

He'd also had no difficulty telling Mr Carson his first plan for the house.

"I'm afraid I don't see what the problem is, Mr Carson," he'd said. "Downton _was _used as a military hospital, after all. Are you saying that just because they didn't all have titles, they don't deserve to have their story told, poor sods?"

"Not at all, Thomas," Mr Carson said through gritted teeth. "Which is why I have seen fit to make special mention of Downton's role in the war in all our guided tours."

"The problem with _mentioning _it, Mr Carson, is that it turns out like most things you say. Goes in one ear and out the other. Speaking from personal experience that is…at least, that's how it's always been with me," Mr Barrow said.

There was nothing to indicate that the 'you' Mr Barrow was talking about was a specific, rather than a general 'you.' Nothing, that was, except Mr Carson's reaction.

"I don't doubt that, Thomas," he said, through gritted teeth. "Nonetheless, I feel that this…idea of yours is sensationalist and without merit. It makes a – a mere _pantomime_ of those brave men and their courageous actions."

Mr Barrow had decided to kit out part of the house as it had been during the first world war. There was even talk of re-enactments, with some expert or other dressing up as a doctor and giving special talks. It was the dressing up that stomped on Mr Carson's nerves.

"Or brings them to life," Mr Barrow said. The hospital beds arrived soon after.

"He doesn't half-like throwing his weight around," Alfred opined, in the privacy of their rented house – and honestly, there were times when Jimmy was afraid his eyes might roll right out of his head, because wasn't that the whole _point _of having authority? To make people jump?

Which was why it was so important to get on Thomas Barrow's good side. Jimmy was pretty sure that Mr Barrow's very lack of comment on his performance was a promising sign, given Mr Barrow's barracuda like tendency to attack at the slightest sign of weakness. Plus there was no doubt that Mr Barrow had noticed him – Jimmy'd lost count of the number of times he'd glanced up, skin prickling, to find Mr Barrow's eyes on him.

Still, that wasn't nearly enough. _Looking _wasn't going to get him anywhere – he needed to start establishing a more tangible link with Mr Barrow.

He finally got his chance about a week later, by accident. It was swelteringly hot, and after a tour that had included a small child that had bawled its lungs out for the duration, all the while clinging to a mother that stared at Jimmy stoically, he had retreated down to the furthest reaches of the house, to stand by an open window, and contemplate the British public's urgent need for widespread and forcible vasectomies.

The sound of voices had made him frown, then press as close to the window as he could without being seen, as he realized that he was standing very near to where Miss O' Brien was taking her smoking break…with Mr Barrow.

" – only saying, some of us haven't seen that much of you," she said.

"Been a bit busy lately…as you might have noticed," came Mr Barrow's voice.

"Oh, I've noticed," Miss O' Brien said, dry as the Sahara. "Don't think there's many who haven't. You don't think you ought to slow it down a touch?"

"Why should I? That's the beauty of being in charge. No need to ask _permission_," Mr Barrow told her.

"Hm." There was a pause. "So…would I be right in assuming that Love's Labour's Lost?"

Mr Barrow's answering pause was infinitesimal. "I'm back here, aren't I?"

Miss O' Brien seemed satisfied with this. Jimmy, on the other hand, wished that they would stop speaking in archly significant shorthand.

The sound of shuffling feet outside the window. "I'd best be off," Mr Barrow said, My chair's arrived. I'd better get it to my office before Carson sees it and tries to have it destroyed for the crime of being made later than 1900."

"Alfred'll help you with that," Miss O' Brien said. "I've been hoping you two would have a chance to talk, properly."

Jimmy moved back from the window. This was _it, _he just knew it. Accordingly, he hurried back to the front hall, where Alfred was staring vaguely at the stairs (hand carved. Oak. Never-bloody-ending). A word about Mrs Patmore needing help (not even a _lie, _really, since Mrs Patmore always needed help, and Alfred fancied himself something of a cook), and Jimmy was the only one left in the front hall when Thomas Barrow appeared.

"Sorry – don't know where he's got to," he said, in response to Mr Barrow's question. Then, "Anything I could help you with?"

"Are you sure?" Mr Barrow asked.

Jimmy smiled. "At your service."

Mr Barrow'd done that thing then, that quick flick of his eyes looking Jimmy up and down. Jimmy'd kept smiling, trying to look like the model of a perfect tour guide, even though those pale eyes were disconcerting.

Mr Barrow smiled back at him – not a proper, full-on smile, but miles away from the polite-meaningless smiles he'd bestowed on Anna and everyone else. And Jimmy had found himself depositing a swivel-chair into Mr Barrow's office.

It was a small room (Jimmy thought Mr Carson might have had something to do with that), almost cramped with two people inside. Jimmy made no move to leave as soon as he'd dropped the chair. Instead, he looked around with unabashed interest. Mr Carson's room was all old leather-bound books and ledgers, and dark, old furniture.

Mr Barrow's office on the other hand, was much more modern.

"Make yourself at home, why don't you?" Mr Barrow said, dryly, as Jimmy looked his fill.

Jimmy made sure to grin at him. "Can't blame me for being curious." Idly, he spun the seat of the chair. "This is a bit different than Mr Carson's style. Not exactly period-appropriate."

"Well, I'm not exactly period-appropriate myself," Mr Barrow said, casually. "I'm a bit more…unconventional, you might say. Don't think I'd've liked to be around back then."

"Me neither," Jimmy said. He would have said it anyway, to agree with Mr Barrow, but it was true. "I don't understand how some people can get so fussed about how things were."

Mr Barrow's lips quirked up, as if he were holding back a real smile. "Funny attitude for a tour guide to have."

"I suppose I'm a bit unconventional myself," Jimmy said. "Like you, Mr Barrow. I mean all this 'good old days' rubbish. They weren't the good old days for everyone, were they? Depended on the sort of person you were, didn't it?"

At the very least, tour guide was a step up from servant.

Mr Barrow tilted his head to the side, looking at him with a clear expression of interest on his face. "Very true, James," he said. "That's – very true."

"Jimmy, please," Jimmy said.

"All right. Jimmy," Mr Barrow repeated, eyes still holding his.

It had been going so well – so Jimmy stepped forward, and lowered his voice a little. "Mr Barrow - I wonder if I might ask you something…as one unconventional sort to another?"

Mr Barrow didn't say anything, but if anything, he looked more intrigued.

"See – I'm like you, Mr Barrow. I want to – get places. I like it here, but it's not like I want to be a tour-guide my whole life."

It was funny – Mr Barrow only shifted slightly on his feet, but Jimmy felt as if something had changed. Like the air, which had been almost _charged_ with the force of Mr Barrow's interest, no longer held the same zing.

But he'd _started, _and he couldn't stop. He just – had to get Mr Barrow's attention back. It made his words come out more forcefully, as he said, "The thing is – Mr Carson doesn't like me. And I don't have an aunt looking out for me. Or anyone else. I'm all on my own – so whatever I get, it's all down to _me._"

He didn't know how he'd done it, or what he'd said – but he had the whole of Mr Barrow's interest again, almost unpleasantly dizzying in its intensity.

"There's nothing wrong with being ambitious," Mr Barrow told him. "And Mr Carson never liked me much when I was a tour guide either. Didn't do me any harm."

"That's why I'm asking you, Mr Barrow. I was just wondering if you had any tips for me."

Mr Barrow looked at him for a long moment, as if he were undecided about something. Then he went behind his desk, and pulled out one of the drawers, before offering a small, battered book to Jimmy.

"'_Downton Abbey: A History by Charles Carson,'"_ Jimmy read. "Mr Carson wrote a book about this place?"

"No," Mr Barrow said. "Mr Carson wrote _the _book about this place. Very hard to lay hands on though. It were my bible when I was a tour guide."

"Mr Carson must have been impressed," Jimmy said, running his fingers over the fraying cover.

Mr Barrow's lips quirked again. "Actually, he said it was proof that the devil could quote scripture for his own purposes. Still…made it very hard to argue with me, when I was backed up by such a reputable source." He looked down at the book. Almost off-handedly, he said, "Take care of it, won't you? I can't replace it."

Jimmy nodded, and smiled at him. "Thank you, Mr Barrow. I do appreciate it."

Mr Barrow bestowed another of those too long glances at him. Jimmy wondered if the reason he felt so uncomfortable and _aware _under Mr Barrow's eyes was because, up close, he looked like he was _searching _for something. Like there was an answer to something important written under Jimmy's skin, and Mr Barrow was trying to look through him to read it.

"Well…us unconventional sorts have to look out for one another," Thomas Barrow said finally.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, so I have to say thank you to whoever recced me on the Thommy tumblr - that was so nice of you! And thank you to everyone who has read or reviewed :) Please feel free to let me know if there's anything I can do to improve, too.

* * *

What happened next was not Jimmy's fault.

Not even a little.

The book had worked – and in more ways than one. He'd begun gilding his bare-bones tour information with some of Carson's more ornate facts about Downton (the emergency procedure for upstairs maids in case of fire being a particular favourite, though the mysterious death of a visiting foreign diplomat in 1913 was a good one for drawing out the conspiracy theorists), and Mr Carson had _noticed_, the way Mr Carson noticed everything. It was gratifying to have him comment on this sudden upswing of interest on Jimmy's part, even if his tone indicated his profound reluctance toward commending Jimmy in any way.

Come to think of it, maybe that made it even _more_ gratifying.

"I just did as you said, Mr Carson," Jimmy told him, "Took the time to do a bit more research, that's all."

But he'd been careful to look over to the side, to catch Mr Barrow's eye as he said it, since the most important part of the whole thing was the way Mr Barrow had tipped his chin up at Jimmy, in amused acknowledgment.

Because first and foremost, the book was a link between them.

_A_ link. The _first_ one. Because there was no denying it now. Mr Barrow'd taken _note _of Jimmy before…but since the day in his office, he'd started taking a definite _interest._

Now in the mornings he stopped to make conversation with Jimmy. If he needed extra help with something, it was Jimmy he asked for. And Mr Barrow actually began to compliment him.

Nothing too extravagant, or obvious, of course. First, Mr Barrow made offhand mention of how much some guest had enjoyed Jimmy's tour. Then he praised Jimmy for his handling of a delicate situation involving two tourists who'd almost come to blows over the last slice of sponge cake in the café. And he never failed to thank Jimmy for toting dusty boxes to and from the locked upstairs rooms where they were stored.

As a matter of fact, Jimmy half-wondered whether Mr Carson's foray into reluctant, gritted-teeth praise hadn't been due to some behind the scenes prodding from Mr Barrow.

It turned out that even if Jimmy didn't have Mr Carson, or an aunt on his side…he did have someone looking out for him, after all.

Obviously, this was a bit of a departure from Mr Barrow's usual modus operandi, which even on his most approachable days, ran more toward snide comments and nitpicking.

"Well, you _are_ the golden boy and no mistake," Mrs Patmore had said, as she gave her counter a vigorous rub-down, cleaning the last remnants of sponge cake and cream. On the floor, Daisy crouched down with a pan and brush, sweeping up the broken crockery.

Anna and Mr Bates conducted a whole conversation with their eyebrows when Mr Barrow happened to mention how some old bat had singled Jimmy out for his exemplary attentiveness and courtesy during a tour.

And Alfred stopped even bothering to volunteer whenever Mr Barrow popped around to ask for an extra pair of hands to tote boxes to or from his office.

It wasn't – in retrospect, Jimmy wasn't saying there weren't _signs _that Mr Barrow fancied him rotten.

It was just…there were other factors that clouded the issue somewhat. Like – Mr Barrow's odd habit of speaking as if everything he said were somehow deeply significant, and yet at the same time, utterly meaningless. He dispensed random trivialities as if they had depths of hidden implication, and tossed off actual important details with a kind of sardonic flippancy, out of the side of his mouth. He was the only person Jimmy knew who could make a simple request to pass the milk jug seem laden with sinister undertones.

It made him hard to get a handle on.

And then again, that kind of soppy mooning just didn't fit into Jimmy's personal narrative of Mr Barrow. He didn't _want _it to fit in. For Mr Barrow, with his almost supernatural ability to get under everyone at Downton's complacent skin…Mr Barrow, the agent of chaos and opportunity both, to be revealed as nothing more than a misguided lech…it _diminished _him too much in Jimmy's mind. He fought against it.

Still, Mr Barrow always stood far too close to him when they spoke, and Jimmy wasn't _thick. _He would have twigged it for certain, if it hadn't been for –

"Well, you _have _made quite the impression on Mr Barrow, no doubt about that," Miss O' Brien said, sidling over after one of those too-intimate morning chats that always left Jimmy with an uneasy awareness of Mr Barrow's body in relation to his own.

Miss O' Brien leaned close and Jimmy'd fought the urge to pull back, suddenly fiercely protective of his personal space.

"If you don't mind my saying – I'm happy to see it," she said, and she unleashed a smile so infrequently used that Jimmy could practically glimpse rust at the corners of her mouth.

"You are?" Jimmy asked.

"Of course," she said. Her eyes widened in apparent sincerity. "Thomas could use a friend – and as you've no doubt noticed, they're not exactly forming an orderly queue behind you. I had hoped that _Alfred_ might take a shine to him, but Thomas has always been a bit of an acquired taste."

"Oh?" Jimmy had said, attempting to downplay his sudden and very pressing interest. He cleared his throat. "Why's that then?"

Miss O' Brien had looked at him. "You don't find him a bit intense?"

"Suppose he is, a bit," Jimmy had conceded. He felt as if he could pick out the man's brand of bodywash blindfolded.

"He's always been like that. He comes on a bit too strong, and it tends to frighten people off – I think they get the wrong idea about him, to be honest."

"The wrong idea?" Jimmy had repeated, but Miss O' Brien had only smiled again –the smile so infrequently unemployed that it almost creaked as it spread across her face. "All he wants is a friend. Bit of company. I know from experience. Why – the first time he worked here, that was me. Used to be he hung on _my_ every word."

That had settled it in Jimmy's mind – for a while at any rate. Alfred's aunt, though no doubt possessed of many…qualities…was not exactly the kind of person Jimmy would describe as 'fascinating.' If Mr Barrow had subjected _her _to the same intent…_intensity…_that Jimmy had so recently been a recipient of, then clearly, Thomas Barrow was just a very _lonely, _very isolated man.

Afterwards, Jimmy decided that his crucial mistake had been that in pursuing his own plan, he'd neglected to consider that _other people _might have an agenda that opposed his own. That Mr Barrow might have purposefully put the (perfectly clear and relatively innocuous) things he'd done together in the wrong order, upside-down or backwards, was, like an iceberg, a thought that surfaced uneasily every so often in Jimmy's mind, but it could be pushed down with a little effort. That Miss O' Brien might be following some sort of strategy never once occurred to him.

Which was why he'd _listened _to her when she'd mentioned the journalist. He was meeting with Thomas to write a general interest piece on the new and upcoming changes at Downton, and apparently, Mr Barrow was not favorably disposed toward him.

"Why not?"

"Oh, the age-old reason – a girl," Miss O' Brien said. "Worked here for a summer before Mr Branson scooped her up. I do hope it doesn't rake up old memories for Thomas. They were never more than friends, but he was quite cut up when she left."

Something had untwisted inside Jimmy at this, and so, with some further prompting from Miss O' Brien, he'd found himself at the _Downton Café_ on his lunchbreak, ordering two coffees for takeaway.

"Aren't you forgetting something? Alfred takes his with sugar," Daisy informed him, with the zeal of the lovelorn and overinvested, as he poured the milk in.

"Good thing this isn't _for _Alfred, then," Jimmy told her smartly.

"It's – that's not…you're not getting coffee for _Thomas, _are you?" Daisy asked – and there was something in her voice that, despite the reassurance of Miss O' Brien's earlier words, gave Jimmy pause.

"Why?"

"Nothing!" Daisy said quickly. "It's nothing. I just – I think it's nice of you, is all." With an apparent sincerity that ran a chilling fingertip down Jimmy's spine, she repeated, almost to herself, "It's really nice. It is."

The iceberg of disquiet bobbed up, but it wasn't until after he'd found Mr Barrow, listening to a sandy-haired man expound on the outdated albatross that was the typical stately home, that it resurfaced completely.

" – all too often, just a relic of an archaic and prejudiced system. They're the U.K.'s equivalent of dinosaur bones, littering the landscape – only less useful," the sandy-haired man said, shaking his sandy hair out of his eyes.

Mr Barrow's mouth lifted in one of those smiles that was almost a sneer. "Well, that's why we're looking at ways to exploiting Downton's potential to ensure that it remains relevant in a modern age." The patter rolled effortlessly off his tongue. "We already have some workshops, but we're looking to expand these, to take advantage of some of the traditional crafts in the local area – crochet, pottery, soap-making… We hope that Downton can become a centre to promote these people's talents. We're also looking at opening Downton up for different types of community events, and we feel the plans for a children's playground will provide further inducement for people to visit."

The journalist grinned. "Ah, yes, the children's playground – I liked that one. Tell me, how did you talk Mr Carson into it?"

Smoothly, Mr Barrow said, "As a matter of fact it was Mr Carson's idea."

"Go on." The journalist was clearly skeptical. "You're forgetting that it's my job to sniff out the truth – and there's no way that that's it."

"Believe what you want," Mr Barrow said. "But originally, Mr Carson campaigned for a theme park."

"All right, all right," the journalist said, a disbelieving smile on his face. "Well, whoever had the idea, I'm in favour. And so is Sybil," he said. "She says hello, by the way."

Mr Barrow just inclined his head to the side in acknowledgment, and Jimmy felt curious, and somewhat relieved. There had been a girl.

That relief disappeared as soon as the journalist packed up and left. He'd proffered the coffee, feeling awkward at the clear look of mingled surprise and pleasure on Thomas Barrow's face.

"What's this in aid of, then?" he asked.

Jimmy shrugged, trying to downplay it. "I just heard you weren't a big fan of the press."

"The press I don't have a problem with," Mr Barrow said, "_Him, _on the other hand…" he trailed off, taking a sip of his coffee. He smiled, and he tilted his head to the side as he regarded Jimmy. "Perfect. You been checking up on me?"

"Who's Sybil?" Jimmy asked, fighting the urge to fidget under the clearly appreciative gaze.

Mr Barrow smiled, a secret kind of smile, like Jimmy'd let something slip, before answering. "_His _better half. And I mean that. Sybil's worth ten of him. She worked here one summer when I was a tour guide." His smile settled into something more familiar as he said, "He was careful to keep all those opinions about the 'rot of the aristocracy' to himself while he was busy poaching from them."

Jimmy didn't know what that meant, but before he could ask, Mr Barrow took a deliberate step closer to him, right into his personal space. He couldn't help it, he stiffened, but Mr Barrow didn't appear to notice. As a matter of fact, he reached out and placed his free hand on Jimmy's shoulder, and _squeezed_.

"Thank you," he said. He raised his coffee in demonstration, but didn't lift his other hand from Jimmy's shoulder as he repeated, in a low voice, "Thank you, Jimmy." His thumb stroked against the fabric covering Jimmy's collarbone. "It's kind of you, and I appreciate it."

Jimmy stared at him. He could feel his face shift into a strained, tense smile, and after a moment, Mr Barrow frowned and moved back.

Jimmy's heart had thumped, hard against his ribcage and he'd _known – _he _had_ known_, _in spite of everything.

The problem was, while the idea of Mr Barrow's fumbling misinterpretation of his behavior was now broadcasting at an undeniable frequency in Jimmy's mind, he'd _still_ overlooked the idea of Miss O' Brien having a potential stake in this situation, and so he'd asked her, because who better to allay or affirm his growing suspicions about Mr Barrow, than someone who had always been so _close _to him?

He'd couched his enquiry carefully, though Miss O' Brien had inadvertently (or so he thought) given him the perfect opportunity to broach the subject, later that day.

"I take it Thomas is feeling better?" she'd asked, as she waited for Alfred to finish flirting abysmally with Ivy, and give her a ride home. "Did the coffee cheer him up?"

"It seemed to," Jimmy said. He paused. "He can be a bit…touchy-feely though, can't he? Mr Barrow."

Miss O' Brien had smiled immediately, understandingly. "You've noticed that, then."

"Be hard _not_ to notice it," Jimmy replied, trying to keep his temper tamped down, because some prior warning would have been _nice_.

"He's always been like that," Miss O' Brien said. She cocked her head to the side. "You know, I've often wondered if he doesn't have a touch of _something_. Not the most socially adept, our Thomas."

She was so _calm_, like every word she said was so weighted with the truth…that Jimmy could feel himself relaxing a little, his misgivings fading, in spite of himself. And her words had made a sort of sense. There'd been a boy like that in his class at school once – he'd had a sort of fixation on trains. He'd brought every conversation back to trains – whenever it had been someone's birthday, he'd bought them a small model train as a present. Jimmy's had been a green locomotive.

It had been that boy's way of trying to make a _connection, _Jimmy's mother had explained to him. He just had a different way of trying to be friends than most people.

Thomas Barrow didn't particularly remind him of that boy…but then, there were all sorts of those people about, weren't there? You couldn't lump them all into one category.

Miss O' Brien had said it (well…not _said_ it exactly, but she'd certainly implied it), and what reason would she have to invent something like that?

But when it came right down to it, the fact of the matter was - quite a large part of Jimmy just _wanted _to think of Mr Barrow like that – it was more comfortable. High-functioning eccentric fit better with his personal narrative. It was _safer. _

Of course, it was also a misconception doomed to end in the kind of fiery explosion that generally resulted in lost limbs and serious injury.

That didn't make what happened next _Jimmy's_ fault.


	5. Chapter 5

The costumes marked the beginning of the end.

He'd been lingering in Mr Barrow's office after delivering another box of books from the private archive, while Mr Barrow flicked desultorily through one of the old servants wage ledgers. Outside, all that awaited him was Mr Carson, and his suspicion of hands that could be categorized as idle in any way. Inside the office, there was the way Mr Barrow took periodic breaks from scrutinizing the old pay records to cast his eyes over Jimmy…but there was also the possibility that Mr Barrow might drop some interesting tidbit of information.

The truth was…the _truth _was – if Jimmy overlooked the strangeness, Thomas Barrow wasn't bad company. He was cynical, underhanded and devious of course…but those were refreshing qualities when compared to the overwhelming _niceness _that seemed to afflict everyone else at Downton, and which sapped Jimmy's will to live.

Mr Barrow was _clever, _at least. He never banged on about the genius of Jamie Oliver (Alfred), or took the weekly horoscopes as gospel (Ivy).

Not to mention, spending time with Mr Barrow gave Jimmy access to all sorts of fascinating information.

Such as – the reason behind Mr Bates and Mr Barrow's feud –

" – so then Lord Grantham goes over Mr Carson's head and offers him a job as tour guide," Mr Barrow said. "Turned out Mr Bates wasn't so principled he wouldn't take advantage of his connections."

"Nice of Lord Grantham to take an interest though," Jimmy said. "Charitable."

Mr Barrow fixed him with an unimpressed look. "Oh yes, _very_ charitable. Wasn't him that had to pick up the slack, though, was it? Think about it – Mr Bates having to go up and down those stairs every day, with his leg. No – it wasn't Lord Grantham had to deal with _that_."

Other times, Jimmy got a welcome preview of the upcoming attractions Mr Barrow had planned for Downton. Like –

"You wouldn't," Jimmy said flatly.

Mr Barrow's response was to arch his eyebrows and say, coolly, "Why not?"

"Because they're the _owners, _and they're not going to just turn up on your say-so, for tourists to gawp at them, like they're some kind of zoo exhibit."

"It wouldn't be every day," Mr Barrow said. "Just every once in a while. You have to admit, it would certainly get the place talked about. Come to Downton and y'might meet a real live Earl." He leaned forward in his chair, his arms coming to rest on the table, almost bracketing Jimmy's, tone suddenly half-serious. "It's always been people like _us _who've kept this place going – right from the very beginning. The way I see it, s'about time _their_ lot put a bit of work in."

"By shaking hands and kissing babies," Jimmy said, and shook his head. "You'd never ask them though, not really." He grinned. "But if you ever _do, _I want to be there when you tell Carson."

Mr Carson still referred to the planned children's playground as _The Impending Eyesore_. Jimmy couldn't even begin to imagine his reaction to Thomas Barrow attempting to _rent out _the Family.

Of course, sometimes – like right _now_ – Mr Barrow's schemes for Downton were decidedly less appealing.

"_Costumes_?" Jimmy said.

"Period-appropriate attire," Mr Barrow corrected, quite calmly. "I'm hardly going to suggest you and Alfred conduct your tours dressed as clowns."

"I don't see much difference," Jimmy said, crossing his arms.

"You weren't complaining before. With the military hospital."

"That was different!"

Mr Barrow raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well for one thing, _I _wasn't the person playing dress up then," Jimmy almost hissed. It turned out that the joke was considerably less amusing when he himself formed part of the punchline.

Mr Barrow appeared to consider this. "It's not like you'll be the only one. Everyone else'll have to do it as well."

"Oh yes? So that includes you too?"

He actually _smirked, _and Jimmy felt a sudden, unexpected sympathy for everyone else who'd crossed swords with Thomas Barrow…

…or at least, he _would have, _if he hadn't been too busy feeling sympathy for himself.

"Well, I'm more of a behind the scenes sort of person."

"Right," Jimmy said, voice as expressionless as he could make it. He got to his feet. "I'd better be off. Mr Carson will be wanting" –

As he moved toward the door, Mr Barrow cleared his throat, and he said, very suddenly –

"You know, there's a lot of work involved in what I'm doing."

Yes, Jimmy supposed there _would_ be a lot of work involved in personally pissing off every single person who worked at Downton. And one thing Thomas Barrow had certainly proven was his dedication to _that_ particular aspect of the job. It was practically a _vocation _for him.

" – and I've been thinking, maybe I could use a bit of help. In a more…official capacity, like. You know, someone to keep track of my appointments, help with the inventory, organize my correspondence. A sort of…personal assistant."

Jimmy's fingers actually tingled on the knob of the door. He stopped in his tracks. "You mean…like a promotion?" Slowly, Jimmy turned around. "Is that an _offer_, Mr Barrow?"

Thomas Barrow looked at him, considering. He sounded more like himself when he said, "I'd say it's more of an…opportunity. Don't know what _you'd_ call it."

"Welcome," Jimmy said, immediately. "Very bloody welcome indeed."

Mr Barrow leaned back in his chair. "Pity though," he mused, eyes flicking to Jimmy and then away. "I think the uniform would've suited you."

It was a just a joke, Jimmy told himself firmly, as he felt his mouth crawling into a tense semi-smile. A weird, inappropriate joke from someone who probably didn't even realize how weird or inappropriate he was being…hard as that might be to believe.

And it _was _hard to believe, because Mr Barrow always seemed to at least _sense_ whenever he'd crossed a line, frowning and pulling back immediately, like a cat that'd just stepped in a puddle of water. Of course, a couple of days later and he was always back at that same line and preparing to leap, so…

So it was just a joke. Unquestionably. The image of a green locomotive flashed across Jimmy's mind as he closed the door behind him.

They might have continued on indefinitely like that, in that same strange one-step-forward, two-steps-back dance, but the threat of _costumes_ led to both he and Alfred handing in their CVs and waiting outside Mr Barrow's office for an interview.

"I don't know why I'm even doing this," Alfred grumbled, and Jimmy privately agreed with him. "But my aunt said the interview'd be good experience anyway, and you never know…maybe you wouldn't even go for the job, in the end."

"What?" Jimmy's forehead creased in bewilderment. "Why not?"

Alfred shrugged. "Something about not wanting to ruin your beautiful friendship with Mr Barrow."

Alfred's aunt was all right, Jimmy thought, but she was also a bit naïve. Not wanting to ruin his _beautiful friendship with Mr Barrow_…he rolled his eyes.

The interviews led to a consideration period of several days…which Jimmy found frankly insulting.

Thomas Barrow on the other hand, seemed to find it amusing. "It's important to do these things right," he said, evenly enough, but his lips quirked at Jimmy's expression.

Yeah. _Beautiful _friendship, all right.

"I know _that_," Jimmy said, "But how long do you really _need_ to consider Alfred? He's a _dead-end._"

Mr Barrow's mouth twitched into that barely-there smile again, and Jimmy felt a momentary flash of pride – Mr Barrow was a much more difficult person to amuse than most at Downton – and then irritation at having felt that at all. Stockholm Syndrome – that's what people called this.

"A few more days – just to satisfy Carson," Mr Barrow said. It sounded like a promise.

Still, until it was formally announced – part of Jimmy remained on edge.

And _that _meant that when Mr Barrow had mentioned staying late to continue some research, Jimmy had felt compelled to volunteer his services.

Mr Barrow had been so startled by his offer that his usual guard was down, and it was easy to see how pleased he was. He stared at Jimmy, looking suddenly younger. His mouth had curled into a smile and he'd opened his mouth – to accept, Jimmy knew.

Unfortunately, this happened as everyone else was leaving, and so –

"What? _No_ – Jimmy, we're going to see that film tonight, remember?" Ivy said. Mr Barrow's eyes slid to her fingers, clutching at Jimmy's shirt sleeve, then he looked away.

"We can do that another time," Jimmy told her, widening his eyes and willing her to just _shut up._

No such luck. "But you _promised," _she said. "And I've been wanting to see this for _ages. _I was just talking about it – how can you have forgotten!"

"So – you and Alfred go, then," Jimmy said, trying to keep his voice low. "You can tell me about it later."

Ivy looked at him for a long moment, then away. Almost hopelessly, she said, "Or maybe…we could wait until the late show? You'll be done by then, surely?"

"All right," he said, so relieved that he would have agreed to almost anything, if it meant that Ivy stopped making a scene.

She looked a bit wilted as she said, "I'd better let Alfred know." Her shoulders slumped as she pushed past Jimmy.

Miss O' Brien hitched her handbag up on her shoulder and addressed Thomas. "That's a bit harsh, isn't it? Remember – all work and no play. I'm sure you could spare Jimmy for one night – let him take his girl out to the pictures. If you need help so badly, I'm sure Alfred wouldn't mind missing something just this once."

Mr Barrow had a newspaper on the table, and he bent over it once more. He sounded closed off, almost disinterested when he said, "If he wants to go to the pictures instead, I'm not stopping him. It's not like I've got a gun to his head." He didn't look up.

"And Ivy's not my girl," Jimmy said to Miss O' Brien, suddenly compelled to clear that part of the misunderstanding up. As nice as Ivy was, and as pretty as she was…he remembered the look on Mr Barrow's face when Ivy'd been talking about the lead actor in that film earlier – going on breathlessly about how _handsome _he was and how his _smile _just made her knees go funny and did anyone _else_ think he was a Scorpio, because…

"Oh?" Miss O' Brien asked, cocking her head to the side. Mr Barrow finally glanced up from his paper.

Ivy was just – well, she was a bit _provincial, _wasn't she?

Jimmy couldn't say that, of course, so he settled for, "She's not my type."

"Really?" Miss O' Brien mused. "Pretty girl like that – I would have thought she'd be _everyone's_ type."

He'd never thought Alfred and his aunt were particularly alike before, but right at that moment, he could suddenly see where Alfred got his streak of obtuseness from.

"Well, she's not mine," he said again, firmly enough to close the subject.

This time, Miss O' Brien picked up on the hint. "Oh well. No harm done, I suppose." She adjusted her handbag on her shoulder once again and said, "You two gentlemen enjoy your evening," before slipping out the door.

Jimmy'd made himself a cup of tea, since Mr Barrow didn't seem too inclined to start right away, and he finished it sitting across from Mr Barrow at the staff table, in a strange, thick silence that lasted even after they gathered themselves and went into Mr Barrow's office – which had never seemed quite so small as it did just then.

The quiet was like a black hole, sucking in everything. The sound of turning pages, their desultory stabs at small talk…it all disappeared into a silence that almost crackled with tension.

Jimmy turned pages in one of the books, absently making notes. Mr Barrow was thinking about creating some kind of exhibition ("Mr Barrow plans on making an _exhibition_ – well, I can't say I'm surprised," Mr Carson had said, tartly) that put the spotlight on the servants' lives in Downton Abbey. There was an old photograph album with a number of servants' portraits included – one of the past Earl's nephews had been a keen (and obviously very bored) amateur photographer. There was even a photograph of Alfred's ancient relative in there – stiffly posed and staring out at everyone with a face that looked like a twist of lemon. Mr Barrow was compiling as much information as he could on some of the faces in the album, ready to roll out a sort of grim, posthumous '_This Was Your Life' _treatment for the lower classes, complete with blown up photographs and ancient button boxes.

It was a bit depressing really, poring over the minutiae of those people's lives. Names appearing and then disappearing in the wage ledgers, or lingering on, sometimes appearing higher up on the list, alongside small pay increases.

"Well, she made it to head housemaid," Mr Barrow said suddenly, apprising Jimmy of the change in status of one Lily Jones. "Wages increased to thirty pounds a year."

"Very generous," Jimmy noted.

"It was," Mr Barrow said. "Probably one of the happiest days of her life. _That's_ what's so sad about it." He stretched across the table and lifted up another wage ledger. "She'll be housekeeper yet, mark my words."

"Could be interesting, if you use her as one of your viewpoints. Watch her rise through the ranks and all that." Lily Jones had entered the household at age eleven as a general tweeny, but by fourteen, she'd made a slightly unusual jump to housemaid. And then, later, to head housemaid. She must have impressed _someone_. Jimmy thought for a moment. "Wasn't she mentioned a few times in those old letters of Alfred's? Something about her being keen on one of the grooms?"

Nothing had got past Alfred's ancient relative. She'd made sour mention of everything and everyone in the household.

"Well, she'd have had to give that up, if she was aiming for housekeeper," Thomas Barrow said, matter-of-factly. "Love or ambition, not enough time for both. Too busy sorting out the linen and china for upstairs. Poor beggars," he added.

In the photograph album, Lily Jones' expression was serious, as was everyone else's. But her chin was tilted up slightly, her eyes were wide-set and clear in her small, pointed face, and her mouth lifted up at the corners. In spite of the old-fashioned hairstyle and uniform, she looked almost – modern, in a way.

"It'd be a nice twist though," Jimmy said. "Stick up a picture of _him _too, a bit about his life – and you've got people wondering what she's going to choose – happily ever after or seventy pounds a year."

Mr Barrow's mouth quirked up. "Very romantic," he said. "You should think about writing a screenplay."

Jimmy made a face. "Not me. S'all a bit soppy, really. Me, I think I'd have taken the seventy pounds. What about you?"

Mr Barrow paused for a moment, but immediately contradicted his hesitation by saying, "No choice, really – I'd've been married to my career back then. Seventy pounds."

"It'd be good though, for the exhibit," Jimmy said. "Get all the girls oohing and aahing."

"My life's ambition," Mr Barrow said, dryly. He placed a bookmark in the wage ledger, then closed it, with an air of finality, and Jimmy straightened, trying to work out the kinks in his spine.

"Y'know, I'll be announcing about the job tomorrow," Mr Barrow said, as he watched him stretch.

"_Good,_" Jimmy said, with complete, heartfelt sincerity. "Took you long enough. I can't wait to start forgetting all those bloody tour-facts."

Mr Barrow tipped his head to the side. "A bit cocky, aren't you?"

Jimmy looked straight at him. "Are you saying you'd pick _Alfred _over me?"

Mr Barrow didn't answer him, changing the subject slightly. "And it's too late, anyway," he said. "A tour guide can never forget. At least, not if he's any good," he added, with that small, superior smirk.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at him. "So, you still remember all those facts and dates from when _you _were a tour guide?"

Mr Barrow shrugged.

"Right," Jimmy nodded in flat disbelief. "Right. Of course you do. Fine – give us a tour, then."

"What?"

"You can't say something like that, and not back it up. Put your money," he said, very deliberately, enunciating every word, " –where your mouth is."

Thomas Barrow looked at him for a long moment, but before Jimmy could congratulate himself for having bested Mr Barrow, he was pushing himself to his feet, hands hitting the table with a decisive sounding slap. He straightened up, posture suddenly impeccable, and when he smiled at Jimmy, there was a hint of a challenge in it.

"Shall we begin?" he asked. His voice was pleasant, but slightly distant – _professional. _"If you'll follow me, we can proceed to the entrance hall." He extended an arm, gesturing Jimmy forward. However, as soon as they were outside the office, Mr Barrow took the lead once again, advancing forward with quick, confident strides. Jimmy had to make an effort to keep up.

"If we're all assembled?" Mr Barrow said, casting his eyes from side to side when he'd reached the hall, as if Jimmy were merely one of a number of tourists. "Good. As you can no doubt see, the entrance hall is dominated by the great Oak Staircase, construction of which was begun in 1891" –

Jimmy trailed Mr Barrow from room to room, as he tossed off facts with a kind of careless ease, narrating the history of Downton Abbey with an almost breathtaking competence, never once slowing down, and hardly seeming to draw breath.

" – the fifth Earl died just weeks later, and so, unfortunately, never had the chance to personally enjoy these restorations" –

"All right, all right," Jimmy interrupted finally, slightly dizzied by the relentless flow of information. "You remember it – I believe you. No need to show off."

Mr Barrow smiled at him. "You can't quit now," he said. "You'll miss the best part." And he walked down the hallway and into one of the rooms that wasn't even on the tour.

Jimmy followed him, only to end up in a room that was almost exactly like all of the others. But Thomas Barrow was standing in the middle of the floor, eyes fixed on a pendulum clock in the corner of the room. "This was my favourite room," he said.

Jimmy cast his eyes around. "I don't see what's so special about it," he said. Mr Barrow turned to him and smiled. "It's not, really," he said. "Just – it was someone's job to wind all these," he gestured at the pendulum clock, and Jimmy stepped nearer, to examine it. He still didn't know what was so interesting about that. It had been someone's job to go around and make sure all the inkwells were properly topped up with ink, too – of course, someone'd had to see to the clocks. It wasn't _surprising._

"I just used to imagine it, that's all," Mr Barrow said. The professional, distant tone had vanished from his voice by now. "I used to think about some bloke going into every room in the house – going in to _this_ room…and making sure the clocks were right. Used to try and think about what it was like for him. Might've been his favourite part of the day – bit of peace and quiet, just seeing to the clocks."

His voice was low, quiet, and Jimmy was lulled by it, staring at the pendulum clock and imagining, as Thomas Barrow had, this phantom servant, going from room to room, and winding the clocks. Maybe it was because they'd just spent the past two hours raking over the ashes of servants' lives…but he could almost _see it. _

So absorbed was Jimmy by the picture Mr Barrow's words had conjured up, that the brush of fingers against his neck came as a complete surprise. He'd been so immersed, that even his startlement came out almost…muted.

"What" – he began, turning around – but he didn't get any further than that, because suddenly Thomas Barrow's mouth was touching his.


	6. Chapter 6

Jimmy pulled away immediately. "_What_" – he began. The room was quiet and dim, and it had all been so strange – the tour, the clock, Mr Barrow's story…like a spell. He didn't feel quite _present _in himself – like this was a dream, or happening underwater. He couldn't find the right words.

But Mr Barrow didn't seem at all thrown. "Ssh," he said, voice low and rough, his hands coming up to cup Jimmy's jaw. "It's alright," – he bent his head again, and _that _was what brought Jimmy fully back to himself. He brought his hands up and shoved Mr Barrow away from him. His heart hammered in his chest.

"All right_?" _he repeated. "_All right?_" He lifted a hand, that to his surprise, shook. It only made him more furious. "The very _last _thing _that_ was, was '_all right_.' What the _hell_ d'you think you're playing at?"

"I" – he didn't think he'd ever seen Mr Barrow at such a loss for words. "I thought" – He swallowed, rallying a little. "It's nothing." He stepped back.

"_Nothing? _You just _tried it on_ with me – that's not _nothing, _not in my books." Thomas Barrow had just _kissed _him. Saying it aloud, like the fact that it undeniably _was, _did nothing to strip it of its strangeness.

"It was just a misunderstanding," Mr Barrow said, and Jimmy could see him trying to pull himself back together. His face was like a door that was slightly ajar – almost composed, except for the tightness around his mouth. "A misunderstanding. That's all."

"A _misunderstanding, _oh – so _that's_ what you'd call it, is it?" Jimmy laughed – it sounded ugly in his ears. He stopped. "I'm going home," he said, suddenly.

Mr Barrow took a step forward, "Jimmy…" but he flung out a hand in front of him. _Stay away. _"Don't _touch _me." He waited for just a second, legs tensing and his left hand curling into a fist, to make sure that Mr Barrow followed his direction. Mr Barrow's face was almost unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, and his fingers jerked at his sides, like he had to stop himself from reaching out. But he didn't make any further move toward Jimmy.

Still, he felt the need to repeat, more quietly, but no less vehemently, "Don't touch me."

It took him longer than it should have to get home. Part of it was that driving suddenly took an immense amount of concentration, and his hands no longer seemed to instinctively know the right amount of pressure to exert, gripping the steering wheel too tightly, and the gear lever too loosely.

Part of it was also that he'd needed a few minutes before he could even start the car. Though there was the ever-present threat that Mr Barrow might come out looking for him, so he didn't allow himself very long. Mr Barrow hadn't _seemed _like he was going to follow him, Jimmy'd left him standing stock still in that room…but given what had just happened, he wasn't in any mood to give Mr Barrow the benefit of the doubt.

Mr Barrow had _kissed him. _He'd _come on _to him. The thought loomed like a mountain in Jimmy's mind. Mr Barrow had brought him into a darkened room and made a pass at him. He'd looked at Jimmy with eyes heavy and half-lidded with want, and kissed his mouth softly – and it just…it just didn't _fit _with his image of Mr Barrow, _at all_.

It made a lie of everything Mr Barrow had been before that moment. _Worse _than that – it made the whole thing a _joke. _There he was, trying so hard to be _acceptable _to Mr Barrow, to _stand out _and make him _take note_…

…and it turned out that Jimmy hadn't needed to put any of that effort in, after all. It had all been a giant waste of time.

He was in a foul mood when he opened the door to the house. A mood that seemed to be shared by both other inhabitants. The first thing Alfred said to him as he entered the kitchen was, "There's no late show," and he stared at Jimmy with betrayed eyes, as if he'd cancelled the bloody film himself.

"Oh. Right," he said. Like he _cared. _He could feel his jaw working.

"Are you all right?" Alfred asked.

"Fine."

Just then, Ivy walked in, hair damp, wrapped in her thick pink dressing gown, and exuding equal parts _Herbal Essences _and mild stroppiness. "Oh. You're back," she said. She crossed her arms over her chest. In a tone that strove for light-hearted disinterest, she said, "So – how's the Only Gay in the Village, then? Is he _happy _now_? _I hope so, after making us miss our film."

"What?" he asked. "_What_ did you just say?" Jimmy didn't recognize his own voice.

"What?" She looked at him, ill-humour abruptly vanishing, and contrition immediately setting in. "What – oh, Jimmy, it's not…I didn't _mean_ anything by it. Don't take it the wrong way – it's just a joke, is all. Daisy said" –

"You knew?" His voice was still strange in his ears. "All this time, you _knew?"_

"Knew _what? _Jimmy, are you all r" –

"About Mr Barrow. You knew about Mr Barrow."

"I knew _what_ about Mr Barrow?" Ivy frowned. "That he's gay, you mean? Of course I knew that. It's not like it's some secret, is it?"

_Humiliating. _That's what it was. He _burned _with humiliation.

"Well, you could have told _me_," he managed to spit out.

"You mean, you _didn't_ know?" she said, looking completely and utterly nonplussed.

"Really?" Alfred chimed in.

"_You _knew too?"

"_Everyone _knows," Alfred told him. He wore the same bewildered expression as Ivy, seasoned with perhaps a dash more skepticism. "Are you sure you _didn't?"_

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jimmy asked. His teeth felt too big for his mouth. It was hard to speak.

"I don't know. You two spend so much time together" –

Jimmy's heart stopped, and then lurched in his chest. _Everyone knows. _Just _what _did everyone _think_ they knew? "Are you _implying_ something?"

Alfred frowned. "I just thought he might've said – that's all. What with how close you are."

"We're not. We're not _close_," he ground out, "– and he never said anything. And neither did anyone else," he said, purposely twisting the last sentence in Ivy's direction.

"I am sorry," Ivy said, sounding matter-of-fact and not looking half as sorry as she _should. _"But I don't see that it really matters, anyway. I mean, it's not as if he were going to try something on with you" –

He couldn't control his face, even though he _wanted _to – in fact, he'd never wanted anything more – and Ivy's mouth dropped open. "Oh my _God! _He _never!_" She grabbed hold of his shoulder and he shrugged her off. "What did he _do_?" she asked, interest so avid that she was almost licking her lips.

"What'd _you_ do?" Alfred asked.

Jimmy turned to him. "What d'you mean – what did_ I_ do? What d'you _think _I did? I told him off. Told him never to lay a finger on me again. _Obviously_."

"Oh my God. Oh my _God. _I don't believe it," Ivy said, hand covering her mouth and making her words come out muffled.

"So you can see why it might have been _nice _to know about Mr Barrow beforehand."

"I still don't see how you could've missed it," Alfred said, quite matter-of-factly.

"Oh, be quiet Alfred," Ivy told him. "If Jimmy says he didn't know, then he didn't know, alright?" She rubbed his arm sympathetically. "You shouldn't worry too much about it, though," she said to Jimmy. "Nobody even believes those rumours about you and Mr Barrow." A second later, she amended, "Well…almost nobody." And then, still more uncertainly, "Well…I didn't, anyway."

In spite of Ivy's good intentions, this was the coldest of comforts.

The next morning was difficult. He didn't sleep very well – the events of the day…the events of _every _day since Mr Barrow'd shown up running through his head – suddenly rife with hidden meanings and double entendres.

His eyes felt like they'd been scrubbed with sand. Going in to work, having to face Mr Barrow – that was bad enough. Having to face _everybody else – _who, with the loyal exception of Ivy, all apparently thought he was _shagging _Mr Barrow…well, that was even harder.

"I don't see what the big fuss is," Alfred said – and it was easily known _he _wasn't the one being gossiped about. "You didn't seem to mind it before."

"That was because I didn't _know _before," Jimmy reminded him tightly.

"Oh, leave off, Alfred," Ivy said, stroking Jimmy's shoulder. Since last night, she appeared to have been surgically grafted onto his arm. Just this once, he was glad of it.

"It'll be all right. You've already told Mr Barrow, and – and everyone else'll come around soon enough, and see the truth." Another squeeze of his arm, and she said, voice low and sympathetic, "And if you need anything – well, I'm right here to help you."

"Never seemed like he needed any help before," Alfred grumbled.

Jimmy glared at him. "What are you saying? That I _led him on _or something?"

"Of course not! That's not what Alfred means at all – _is it?" _ Ivy narrowed her eyes at him, and grudgingly, Alfred admitted, "No. Of course not."

Ivy bit her lip. "Alfred's probably trying to say that...it's just – well, you're a very _trusting _person, Jimmy, and sometimes – well, sometimes it might be a bit better to hold back. Especially when you don't know how a thing might look to other people."

Standing there with what felt like a red hot coal in his chest, Jimmy thought that this might be the lowest point in his life – being earnestly advised on the finer points of propriety by a girl who'd pronounced hors d'oeuvres as _horse doovers _until Alfred'd finally had enough and corrected her.

But no. There was worse to come.


	7. Chapter 7

Oh. I didn't think this would be so long...I have a feeling its a bit of a thankless slog, installment wise! Better things are ahead. Or at least, slightly less nastiness. Once again, thank you so very much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing :)

* * *

The first thing Miss O' Brien said when they all trailed into the staff room that morning was – "There you lot are." And then, appallingly, "Jimmy, you look tired. Did you have a late night with Mr Barrow?"

There was a moment of pure, blank shock, before Jimmy had the wherewithal to say, "What? _No_." As he sat down, he recovered enough to add, with a smile that felt stuck to his face like a false moustache, "I stayed up late with Ivy, that's all. Got to talking, you know how it is."

Ivy herself sat down, balancing two teacups, one of which she offered to Jimmy. "Thanks," he said, raising his voice, "Though – you _did _keep me up last night, so I suppose it's only fair you keep me awake today too."

Ivy stared at him, as did several other people. Good, he thought. That should help get the message out – the _right _message.

"You weren't up that late," Alfred said quietly, mouth in a straight line. Jimmy glared at him.

It wasn't until he was almost done with his tea that Barrow entered. Jimmy had his back to the door, but he knew from Ivy's little intake of breath, and he couldn't help it – he stiffened in his seat.

"Good morning," Barrow said, coming to stand at the top of the table. Jimmy stared down at his cup as people greeted him.

"Good morning, Jimmy," he said, deliberately.

Jimmy didn't say anything, and the silence stretched out uncomfortably. He could _feel _people looking at him, at _them, _and he thought he might _choke _on the mortification of being put in this position.

Barrow didn't comment on his sudden lack of common courtesy, but eventually continued, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, just the barest thread of tension in his voice, "I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment, Jimmy."

Jimmy couldn't avoid looking at him any more, so he cast his eyes coolly upwards, then said, "I've got a lot of work to do, Mr Barrow."

Barrow looked about the same as always – a bit paler, maybe, and _that _bothered Jimmy too. That he could parade in this morning, pretending like nothing at all had happened, when Jimmy was tied in _knots_…it made Jimmy's blood bubble.

"I realize that – but I promise, it will only take a minute," Barrow said evenly, holding his gaze. Jimmy looked away – but help came from an unexpected source.

"Jimmy said he'd help me with a job this morning," Miss O' Brien said. "So I'm afraid he's spoken for just now. Isn't that right?"

He stared at her, only to be met with her usual calm, inscrutable expression. He hadn't offered to help her with _anything. _Still, he clung to the excuse like the lifeline it was. "That's right. I'm helping Miss O' Brien."

The look he threw Thomas Barrow was almost vicious in victory, but Barrow just pressed his lips together, and held firm. "Well, after that, then?"

And Jimmy realized that he couldn't get out of it. With bad grace, he looked away, but then nodded, just once. Barrow lingered for a moment, then left.

"I'm sorry – I don't mean to stick my nose in," Miss O' Brien said a few minutes later, after everyone had dispersed, and they were walking slowly toward her rooms. Miss O' Brien was based in what everyone called Her Ladyship's Chambers (even though they weren't, not really - just two connecting rooms that'd been converted), and curated a collection of Edwardian fashion. "I don't actually have any job for you to do – I just thought you looked like you could use a bit of a breather."

Gratitude and irritation warred within him – but he thought of Barrow's pale, determined expression and gratitude won. "Oh. Thanks," he said.

Miss O' Brien looked at him, cocking her head to the side. "Is everything all right, Jimmy?" she asked.

"Everything's fine. Why wouldn't it be?" his tone was approaching belligerency, but she didn't appear to notice this.

"I only ask, because you've been acting a bit strange this morning," she said, as if he hadn't spoken at all. Her eyes remained fixed on his face. "Did something happen last night? Between you and Mr Barrow?"

He stared at her, shocked into speechlessness for a few seconds. How did she _know? _Was it obvious to everyone? It felt like someone had placed him under a giant magnifying glass. It was _appalling. _

"Only…I know that Mr Barrow has…well, he has a habit of overstepping his boundaries at times, and I wanted to make sure he hadn't done anything that might…make you uncomfortable."

He insisted, "Nothing happened," as if saying it forcefully enough could somehow make it true, and Miss O' Brien murmured, "All right. If you say so."

He stayed standing there, long enough that Miss O' Brien raised her eyebrows enquiringly. He took a breath. Swallowed. "What did you mean by – make me uncomfortable?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "Just…that Mr Barrow has a certain – _reputation_, if you know what I mean. Good-looking lad like you…I just wondered whether he'd fallen back into old habits. But I was worrying over nothing, obviously."

"Old habits," Jimmy repeated. He felt sick to his stomach. "So, you're saying that Mr Barrow – he" –

"I don't like to repeat gossip," Miss O' Brien said, cutting him off. "And I've always believed that everyone deserves a second chance." She stopped, "But – if anything _did _happen…and I'm not saying that it did – you just remember, that you've got people in your corner, Jimmy. He's in a position of power over you, and if he behaved inappropriately, well…there's some of us here at Downton who take that sort of thing very seriously. That's all I'll say about it." She looked at him for a moment before walking away, leaving him standing in the corridor, shaken.

He held off as long as he could when it came to Barrow. His first tour group was ridiculously, extraordinarily quiet – to the point where even their feet didn't seem to make noise on the staircase (" – construction of which was begun in 1891," Barrow's voice murmured in his ear. He shook his head). They didn't ask any questions – or if they did, he didn't hear them – just traipsed dumbly after him and let his words wash over them. Despite not being entirely focused, his voice only faltered once, as they passed one of the doors (" – you'll miss the best part") that wasn't even part of the tour.

His second tour group was _not _quiet, but again, the only real stumbling block was that same innocuous door – and this time, his voice didn't even falter. He didn't _let _it. His hands did clench, but he pressed his lips together hard to rid them of the phantom sensation of Barrow's brushing against them, and continued on.

Afterwards, he went in search of Barrow. There was a deep kind of anger inside him (so deep down that while he was very _aware_ of it, a kind of vibration jarring his bones – he almost couldn't _feel_ it properly, at least not on a surface level) at being obliged to do so – that Barrow had come in and _forced _Jimmy to come to him.

Not that that was apparently anything new – according to Miss O' Brien. Her words churned in his head, and mixed uneasily with the memory of Barrow's voice. He felt like he might be actually physically ill if he left it any longer.

Accordingly, he dragged himself to Barrow's office and knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.

Barrow looked up from his desk, then awkwardly got to his feet. "Jimmy…good. I thought you'd forgotten" – Barrow's startled expression gave way to something like pleased relief. Jimmy averted his eyes.

"What did you want me for?" he interrupted, staring at the wall.

There was a beat of silence, and Jimmy had to fight to keep himself from shifting on his feet.

"I just wanted to make sure that everything was…all right," Barrow said finally. "After last night."

Jimmy could feel his mouth twisting into an unpleasant smile. _After last night. _Three innocent words that weren't innocent at all when strung together by Thomas Barrow's voice. "Right," he said, trying to keep his voice as expressionless as possible. "That's it then, is it?"

Another pause, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing at Barrow. Compared to the distracted openness with which Jimmy'd been first greeted, his face was now wearing its more familiar, shuttered expression. Jimmy didn't know whether that was a comfort or not.

"I don't know what else you want from me," he said, and Jimmy could have _laughed _almost, except that he'd never felt less like laughing. "I've said it was a mistake, a" –

" – misunderstanding," Jimmy supplied, the word curling in his mouth. Another innocuous word for something that didn't feel innocuous at all. He pressed his lips together again. "Are we still calling it that?"

Barrow considered him, and even the pressure of his eyes on Jimmy's face made him want to scrub his skin until it was raw. "What else would you call it?"

_- old habits, _Miss O' Brien's voice whispered, _I just wondered whether he'd fallen back into old habits, _and the words stuck like a bone in his throat and he couldn't answer. _Good looking lad like you...I just wondered - _

"It was a mistake – and I'm sorry for it, all right?" Barrow didn't sound half as sorry as he should. He sounded like he was observing a _courtesy. _Paying _lip service _to Jimmy's discomfort_. _ "It won't happen again."

Jimmy did laugh then – just once, sharply. "It'd better not."

Barrow took a step out from behind his desk. Jimmy took a breath. "Y'know, you can stop acting like I tried to tie you down to the railroad tracks at any time," Barrow said, almost matter-of-factly. "Last night weren't exactly the culmination of all _my_ hopes and dreams, either."

Last night he'd reached into the past and just…_rearranged _the last few weeks of Jimmy's life. He'd carelessly been rearranging _Jimmy – _his behavior and his motives – to construct some other version of him, and he'd presented that version to everyone else at Downton, who had just – just _accepted it, _as if it were the truth. And now Barrow stood there in front of him, and offered bland, inconsequential apologies. As if he'd done almost nothing at all.

"Oh?" Jimmy bit out, hardly aware of what he was saying, goaded almost beyond measure at the _sop _he'd been tossed by Barrow. He wondered whether any of the others (_good looking lad like you)_ had received the same courtesy, or whether it was just him. Though he didn't much care, to be honest.

"There's no need to get so het up. It might surprise you to hear this," Barrow sounded almost _condescending_ now, "but my general preference runs toward someone a bit more willing."

He wouldn't allow Barrow to sweep it all aside like that, like it was _nothing. _Jimmy would _make_ him take him seriously. He'd _force_ him into a proper reaction, if he had to. Because you couldn't _do _something like that and then just – just _shrug it off_. "That's not what I heard."

He had thrown Jimmy entirely off balance, he'd – upset him…but as it turned out, this was all – par for the course.

_Mr Barrow has a certain – reputation, if you know what I mean._

Barrow's eyes narrowed, and Jimmy felt a vicious twist of satisfaction at that. But all he said was, "Well, you've been talking to the wrong people, then." And Jimmy felt his fury…not disappear, exactly, but drop, like a length of lead, into some chasm within him. Clearly, there was no shaming Barrow. "Is that all?" he asked instead, without inflection. "Only I've got work to do, Mr Barrow, and" –

"Actually, there _is_ something else," Barrow said, and there was actually a _smile_ pulling at the corners of his mouth. "It's about the job."

It wasn't a genuinely amused smile, true – more of a sardonic acknowledgment than anything else…

"It's yours. If you want it. Just thought you might want to know."

…but _still. _That he could look at Jimmy and smile_ at all_, after everything that had happened – it was…it was too much to be _borne_.

"I could get you in trouble, you know," Jimmy found himself saying, words tumbling out of his mouth without any prior thought – no thought at all except to wipe the smug look off Thomas Barrow's face. "If I said anything – about what happened. You – coming on to me."

"What?" All complacency slid off his face, replaced by a look of confusion.

"Well – you are my superior, aren't you? Harassment, I think some people might call it."

Thomas Barrow actually gaped at him, mouth opening, and then closing. "You are _joking, _aren't you?"

"Why? Find it _funny, _do you_?" _He finally felt like he could breathe again – because he'd finally knocked Barrow down a few smirking, know-it-all pegs.

Or not, because Barrow ran a hand through his hair and muttered, almost to himself, "Well, it certainly wasn't your _keen wit _I was attracted to, was it?"

Jimmy stiffened and drew a sharp breath through his nose, and Barrow threw his hands up, even as he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Oh for – _I'm _joking, even if you're not."

"Glad to know you can afford to take this sort of thing so lightly," Jimmy said, voice tight. He stared Barrow down, insisting on – on _something. _Acknowledgment of some kind, maybe. "I could do it."

Barrow stared back. "You could," he agreed. "Mind you, I don't know why you'd _want_ to…but you _could." _He took a breath. "Or – you could stop making such a fuss. Take it as a compliment. And drop it."

"A _compliment?"_

Barrow shrugged. "Seems easier than the alternative, to me."

"Well of course it would. To _you," _Jimmy added snidely.

Barrow just looked at him for a long moment, and it took everything Jimmy had to stay quite still under his eyes.

"Actually, I thought it'd be easier for _you, _too_. _Not just _my_ behavior that'd be examined if we went down that route, is it?"

Jimmy's heart began to pound, loud as a drum in his chest. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, over the sound.

Another of those cool glances. "I'm just saying – I didn't pull it all out of the air, did I?"

"You think I – what? _Encouraged _you?"

Barrow shrugged. "Didn't _dis_courage me," he said. "Try and look at it from my side for just a minute - it was an honest mistake" –

"Well your side is _wrong,_" Jimmy said, words almost bursting from his lips, like bullets. Barrow's face remained impassive. Jimmy took a breath in. Another, reckless with a panicked kind of fury. "Do you want to know the _truth? _I thought – I thought you were my way to get ahead. I _thought_ – he's _lonely_, be _nice, _tell him what he wants to hear…and you might get places. Not _my _fault you misread that. I never even thought of us as friends – let alone anything else." The last sentence stuck in his throat – though it wasn't quite a lie, it wasn't exactly the truth either.

Feeling as if he were raising a plate over his head, only to smash it on the floor, he finished, quietly, but deliberately, "Everything I did, I did to get ahead. That's all."

Barrow just looked at him. Something flickered across his face, but was gone too quickly for Jimmy to read, and he was just left staring at Barrow's most unreadable expression.

Then Barrow laughed – actually _laughed – _though it was completely devoid of amusement. It made Jimmy flinch, and then hate himself for reacting at all.

"Well then," Barrow said. "You really went the extra mile to earn that promotion, didn't you? Congratulations." There was an ironic lilt to his voice too, that suggested humor. Barrow even made a mocking congratulatory gesture with his hands - a mocking, graceful little movement that hit like a sledgehammer to Jimmy's ribs. He couldn't physically move, not for several moments – not until Barrow sat back down at his desk, and pulled a pile of papers toward him.

He looked up, one last time at Jimmy – challenge and a dismissal, all at once. "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss, while you're here? I know you're busy, and I wouldn't want to keep you from your _work_ any longer."


	8. Chapter 8

_God, manipulation is so tedious to write! In my head, this was like - a sentence. Something along the lines of 'Miss O' Brien keeps on manipulating everyone'. FFS, Miss O' Brien! Be more succinct next time! Also - just get over it Jimmy :)_

* * *

Jimmy didn't say anything about the job. It was funny, how something that had felt so important_, _so _crucial _nearly, could recede into next-to-nothingness, just like that. It had been the last thing on his mind in the office, until Barrow'd brought it up.

It got out somehow though, because the next day, Miss O' Brien darted over to him as his last tour dispersed and said, "I hear congratulations are in order. You must be thrilled."

He managed a smile. "Thank you."

"Or not," Miss O' Brien said, tilting her head to the side and regarding him closely. "Is everything all right? I would have thought you'd be dancing a jig."

Prior to Barrow's out-of-the-blue advances that had jarred him to his very core, he had imagined – well, gloating, to be honest. Lording it over Alfred, at least. Squeezing every last drop of satisfaction from each congratulatory comment. But now, now that it had happened, it turned out that he didn't want anyone to remark on it at all. He didn't want to be noticed. He didn't even want to be _looked_ at.

He tried another, hopefully more convincing smile. "Just a bit tired, is all. Suppose it hasn't hit me yet. I've still got to finish out another week here, while they find a replacement for me."

She stopped. "So you _are_ going to take the position?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?" Sullied as the promotion now was – without it, he'd have done all _that_ – made a complete _fool _of himself – for _nothing._

Miss O' Brien didn't reply. Oddly, this did not reassure him. "What?" he demanded.

"I don't know that it's my place to say," she said eventually. It seemed as if she had to weigh every word before she spoke it.

Jimmy's stomach turned, and he said, tightly, "Well you can't _not _tell me _now_, after saying that. Come on – what is it?"

Miss O' Brien pressed her lips together. "I just thought you might not want the job, because of what people are saying –that's all. Thought that's why you were so quiet."

"And what _are_ people saying?" He didn't sound like himself. He hoped it wasn't obvious to Miss O' Brien, who looked up at him and said, "Well, I don't like to be coarse, but there's some that are calling your promotion…'_payment for services rendered._'"

* * *

The thing was – there was no getting out of it.

He was in a terrible position no matter what he did. Take the job, and people _gossiped _about how close he and Barrow were, and made awful, lying insinuations. The thought ate into Jimmy's bones like acid.

But…if he turned the promotion down, and let it go to Alfred, as Miss O' Brien had suggested – well then, what did all his prior solicitous attention to Barrow look like _then? _He looked like a lovestruck idiot – worse still, an _unsuccessful _lovestruck idiot. He looked like he'd genuinely _enjoyed _and found pleasure in Barrow's company.

Maybe it even looked like _Barrow'd _been the one to throw _him_ off – that he'd got tired of Jimmy or something. Barrow had been smoothly, detachedly courteous and nothing more ever since their meeting in his office – as if he'd just written Jimmy off or something. Possibly Jimmy's own behavior since the awful incident even looked like – like _jealousy, _or _sour-grapes _or something.

And then again – there was a part of him that just couldn't _bear _to give up the job. It was _his, _had almost been _made _for him, a custom-fitted opportunity created by Barrow and himself, before things had gone so very wrong.

It was _his, _and no-one else could have it.

That didn't mean that he was happy about accepting. In fact, in some ways, it made him even angrier. Barrow had _ruined_ this for him. Barrow had ruined _everything_.

"I don't know why you've got to go on about it so much though," Alfred said. "I don't see what good getting _hysterical _about it does."

Jimmy glared at him. "Hysterical?" he repeated coldly. "So being _upset _about something is called 'getting hysterical' now?"

Alfred sighed. "Just – you've got that job you wanted, and Mr Barrow's _said _he's sorry…I don't know what else you _want."_

To be perfectly, entirely honest – Jimmy didn't know exactly what he wanted either…only that _this _wasn't _it_, wasn't _nearly _it. To cover this uncertainty, he said, "Your aunt thinks I should report him."

Alfred's mouth dropped open, the way Barrow's had and he said, "_Report_ him? For what – trying to kiss you? What's next? Are you going to start writing up all your aunts who visit at Christmas too?"

"He's my boss, and he made a pass at me – a pass_ I_ _didn't want_," Jimmy said, carefully shaping his mouth around every last word, because that particular information had never managed to churn its way through the rumour mill.

"He made a _mistake, _that's all," Alfred said, and he looked almost upset.

"Not the first one he's made, apparently," Jimmy said. It gave him a tight feeling in his chest to think about it. He'd _wrecked _Jimmy, tried to alter him in some enormous, fundamental way – but Jimmy hadn't even been the first. Evidently, this was just a _hobby of sorts _for Barrow. A _game._

"What are you talking about?" Alfred asked. His forehead wrinkled. "D'you mean the time he got caught with his hand down that tourist's trousers? Because that's the only thing I can think of – and I don't think it's the same thing at all, because that was _years _ago, and from what I've heard, the tourist didn't seem to mind it very much, and neither did Mr Barrow. Mr Carson was the only one who didn't like it, and he wasn't even involved."

Jimmy stared at him. Brilliant. Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it turned out that the man he'd been exalting in his head as some sort of urbane business guru…was in actuality merely a homosexual nymphomaniac who'd been trying to use Downton as his very own shag palace _for years_.

"It was a mistake," Alfred said again. "People do make those sometimes."

"You would know," Jimmy said, under his breath.

Alfred frowned, but ignored him. "He said he'd stop – and he did. And…I don't know – it seemed like…he liked you. I don't mean like," he held up a hand, flapping it as he briefly got tangled in his own words, " – I mean, for real. Like, he liked you as a person."

He cast his eyes over Jimmy. "God knows _why_. But he did. So I don't know why'd you'd go and do something like that to him. It'd be unkind."

Alfred's words were easily refuted, of course. It wasn't like he was a particularly eloquent or skilled debater, and his reasons for not reporting Mr Barrow were simplistic at best.

But there was something in the way he spoke, full of conviction – it should have made him all the easier to mock, but here, now, it dried up all Jimmy's arguments and made him feel something in his chest that absolutely wasn't _shame…_but only because he wouldn't _let _the feeling develop that far.

* * *

After that, he spent the rest of his free time that week in the one place sex-pest Barrow did not seem especially inclined to visit.

"Well, I don't know if 'sex-pest' is _exactly_ the term I'd use," Anna said.

"More like an everyday, or common-garden pest," Mr Bates added, and they smiled at each other.

And all right, Barrow might be a vile, duplicitous sex-pest, but at least he had some _taste, _because spending any extended amount of time in the gift shop was like trying to force your way into a lovebirds' cage.

Though, in between smiles and looks and the human equivalent of billing and cooing, they did let certain things slip about Thomas Barrow. On the one hand, Jimmy felt some relief at a break in the lovey-doveyness. On the other, it felt like no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the man.

In a few more days, he would be spending most of his working day with him. In Barrow's small office. It made his stomach jump.

Which was why he said, "I just don't know why no-one _warned _me."

Abruptly, the mood in the shop changed. After a second's pause, Anna placed another personalized teacup on the shelf, and said, with a careful kind of pleasantness, "Is it really the sort of thing that needs to be _warned _for, nowadays? I thought we were a bit past that, by now."

"Of all the reasons I could find to warn someone about Thomas Barrow, I doubt sexuality would even have a place on the list," Mr Bates said. "And as someone who's been treated to an upfront view of Thomas'...predilections on more than one occasion…no-one involved seemed to have any complaints." He shook his head a little wonderingly, amused. "As a matter of fact, I remember he was quite popular, as a tour guide. Certainly got tipped more often than I did."

As it turned out, Alfred's story about that one tourist had only been the tip of the iceberg. Jimmy was getting the feeling that Barrow's long-standing irritation with Mr Bates stemmed at least partly from his apparently unerring ability to sense when a fellow tour guide was in flagrante delicto.

"Right." Jimmy's mouth twisted. "Accepting payment for services rendered." The words were sour in his mouth. It wasn't _funny_.

Anna looked at him, and said, still using that careful, pleasant tone that somehow felt like a rebuke, "You know, this is – it's a small place. And…I have the feeling it's smaller still if you're not…exactly like everybody else. It's not easy to find what you want, and sometimes…sometimes, if the circumstances aren't ideal, you've just got to go out and _make_ what you want happen." Anna's eyes held Mr Bates', full of significance and secret messages – but when _wasn't _that the case?

She turned back to Jimmy. "Whatever else he's done, and believe me, Thomas has done a lot of things I don't agree with -he's never been shy about creating his own opportunities, and…I can't fault him for that. Even if I, or anyone else, wouldn't have done exactly as he did."

"I don't know – I might have done as he did," Mr Bates said, offhandedly. "If I'd had the chance." Anna and Jimmy stared at him. He practically twinkled as he added, "But I could never get up those stairs quickly enough." And, in an even softer voice, "Not to mention, I had my eye on someone else the entire time."

Anna let out a gasping laugh and threw a stuffed sheep at him. "Be thankful I'm not close enough to smack you."

Jimmy left, because this much sweetness was surely _corrosive_.

* * *

The turning point – or, to be more accurate, the _first _turning point – came two days before he was due to begin his new post. He'd been showing the new tour guide around, a girl called Edna, a few years older than him – who was exactly as unpleasant as a girl with the name _Edna _might be expected to be.

"It's not exactly brain surgery. I'm sure I'll be fine," she said – and she'd left, midway through shadowing one of his tours to get herself a coffee. He hadn't seen her since.

After the tour, his last of the day, he wandered off, as far away from other people as possible. In two days time, he wouldn't have to deal with the tourists and tour groups and stupid, repetitive questions any more.

He'd have to deal with Barrow, though. His stomach flipped at the thought.

As if he'd conjured the man up, he suddenly became aware of Barrow's voice – floating in from outside the open window. He closed his eyes. Of course he'd ended up where it had all begun – where he'd overheard Barrow and Miss O' Brien talking during their smoke break, and then made sure to be in exactly the right place, so that Barrow would ask him for help with his office chair…

It could have all been very different, if only he had resisted the urge to eavesdrop – but now, as then, he found himself pressing closer, Miss O' Brien's words catching his ears like hooks.

" – can remember a time when you wouldn't have that sort of patience with – what did you used to call them? – oh yes, _teases_." Miss O' Brien's voice floated upwards. "You used to be quite disparaging, as a matter of fact."

Jimmy frowned, though Miss O' Brien had been extremely solicitous toward him throughout the week. To a fault, in fact – Jimmy had felt a kind of vertiginous annoyance about it. Though he couldn't bear not to know what people were saying, at the same time he'd wished she hadn't felt quite so committed to keeping him informed.

But here she was, smoking with Thomas Barrow, as if she hadn't spent most of the past week delicately spitting on his reputation.

"Did I? Well, I don't think I can afford to be so disparaging, any more. Not after everything that's happened," Barrow said. His voice shaded only slightly toward bitterness. If you didn't know him well, you might even have said he sounded merely wry.

"Never stopped you before," Miss O' Brien pointed out. "But now, here you are, rewarding the person who turned out to be the biggest tease of all. It doesn't," she added, "seem fair."

Barrow's voice was a verbal eye-roll. "Oh, well, if it doesn't seem _fair…_I'dbest break out the violins, then, hadn't I?"

Miss O' Brien ignored him. "He led you on."

Jimmy's heart slammed against his chest, but oblivious, Miss O' Brien continued, "Bringing you coffee, staying late, always finding excuses to go to your office…it wasn't just _you_. _Anyone_ would have thought he was interested."

Though no-one could see him, Jimmy found himself shaking his head in mute denial. Because it wasn't _true._

Help came from an unexpected source. "Well then, they'd have been wrong," Barrow said.

"He _wanted _you to think it," Miss O' Brien said, her words twisting his behavior until Jimmy couldn't even recognize it. _Why would she - _

"It doesn't matter anyway," Barrow said eventually. "It's all a bit theoretical now, since he's already got the job."

"That could be fixed," Miss O' Brien said. "There are always ways around these things," she promised.

They were taking the job away from him? _No. _He wouldn't _let – _he _couldn't _let – his thoughts refused to form coherently, and his hands clenched at his sides.

Barrow's response wasn't loud (quite the opposite, in fact), but it seemed so to Jimmy, resounding through his body. "No," Barrow said. "No. I won't – the job's his, if he wants it. He's earned that much."

He'd said that before, but this time, it was free of the mocking emphasis he'd placed on it. Well…almost.

Miss O' Brien was speaking, answering, saying something about Barrow knowing best, even if _she_ thought -

But Jimmy stepped back, not wanting to hear any more. He turned and left the room, feeling unpleasantly shaken by Miss O' Brien's unprovoked attack on him…

…but even more so by Barrow's unexpected defence.


	9. Chapter 9

It felt as if the ground underneath his feet had turned to quicksand. A mixture of anger and unease churned continuously in his gut. Miss O' Brien had _lied_ to him. She had said one thing to his face, and then another behind his back.

She had said…she had said a _lot _of things, come to think of it. She'd championed Mr Barrow to Jimmy, only to thoroughly condemn him later. Then she'd taken Jimmy's side when in his presence – only to overturn her verdict and decree _him_ the guilty party in her conversations with Mr Barrow. She'd manipulated Jimmy every step of the way.

It was such a _vast_ and boundless transgression, that Jimmy could not at first understand the reasons behind it. It wasn't that he couldn't logically follow a sequence of events, so much as – he didn't _want_ to. The immensity of what she had done seemed to overshadow any possible motive. Nothing could justify it. It was akin to _murdering_ someone just because they'd taken your parking space. All he felt was a bone deep kind of revulsion that made him shy away from even thinking too deeply about what she'd done.

He didn't sleep well that night. He kept having dreams where Mr Barrow backed him into doorways and cubicles (Downton having been inexplicably converted into a massive, featureless office space by his subconscious), while unaware of Miss O' Brien's watchful eyes.

This was partly the reason why, the next morning in the staffroom when Mr Barrow approached him – he stiffened. It wasn't the whole reason – but he was uncomfortably aware of Miss O' Brien, sitting in the corner.

"Last day as a tour guide," Mr Barrow noted, and Jimmy didn't say anything. "You'll be ready tomorrow." It came out almost as a question, and Jimmy managed to nod briefly, before Mr Barrow moved away again.

Miss O' Brien waited until after he'd left, but even when she finally moved toward Jimmy, it was unhurried, smooth, with no hint of urgency. It made Jimmy think of snakes. It made his spine tense.

"You don't look happy," she said, with that tone in her voice that he'd always taken for disinterested kindness. "Did Mr Barrow say something to you?"

"You were sitting right there. I don't think you need me to tell you what he said," Jimmy said shortly.

"As a general habit, I don't tend to listen in on private conversations." Miss O' Brien sounded a little taken aback.

_Pity, _Jimmy thought. _You find out some very interesting things that way._

"You are going through with it then? The job? Only I thought, from what we _discussed_ – that you might" –

"Well, you thought wrong," Jimmy said. There was something disgusting about the whole thing – her words were like fingers, prying and touching him.

Miss O' Brien stared at him. "I see," she said eventually. "May I ask what decided you?"

He didn't think he would have actually done it, not really. He'd flirted with the idea, certainly, but he hadn't seriously considered it. Not really. Alfred's words had a tendency to roll around in his head, like marbles, and besides – it had just seemed…like a fantasy-revenge, more than anything. More trouble than it was worth, in the long run.

He didn't want to say one true word to Miss O' Brien though, not now…but he couldn't quite restrain himself. "Oh, I was never going to do it," he said. "You know what a _tease_ I am."

Miss O' Brien went very still – and he walked off, feeling he'd scored a hit.

* * *

He shouldn't have said anything at all…or maybe it wouldn't have made any difference – Miss O' Brien had been quite skillful at using his feelings for her own ends, and it hardly seemed to matter to her that those feelings were now directed firmly against her. Probably it didn't make any difference to her plans at all.

In any case, as soon as he arrived the next morning, his mind endlessly repeating – _the office, Mr Barrow's small office, working in that small office with Mr Barrow – _he was met by Mr Carson.

"James," he said. He didn't seem pleased, but then, he rarely did, so Jimmy didn't start to worry until he said, "Might I see you in my office for a moment?"

He didn't say another word, and worry bloomed into full-fledged panic when Jimmy entered the office, and saw Mrs Hughes standing near the desk – and Miss O' Brien sitting in a chair against the wall.

"Well?" Mrs Hughes said, but the question wasn't directed at Jimmy. "I take it we can proceed now?"

"What's going on?" Jimmy asked. There was a stone in his stomach.

"Miss O' Brien has something she would like to discuss," Mrs Hughes told him.

Miss O' Brien shifted forward a little on her chair, and said, "As I said to Mr Carson, lately I've had some – concerns – about Jimmy."

Her eyes flicked toward him, and _No, don't you __dare__,_ he thought but before he'd even had time to finish thinking it, her eyes had flicked away again.

"Oh? And what are the nature of these concerns?" Mrs Hughes asked. Her eyes were sharp, taking in both Jimmy and Miss O' Brien at once.

_Don't you dare, don't you dare, _Jimmy thought wildly.

Miss O' Brien cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that Mr Barrow may have behaved in an inappropriate manner toward him."

Mr Carson's eyebrows shot skywards. Mrs Hughes took a visible breath. "Can I ask why you would think that?" she asked, carefully.

"Certain things Jimmy has said - as well as observations of my own," Miss O' Brien said.

"I see," Mrs Hughes nodded. "Well, I see a very easy way to settle this." She turned to Jimmy. "James – has Mr Barrow ever said or done anything to make you feel uncomfortable?"

He could still feel the stroke of Thomas Barrow's fingers against his neck, the touch of Thomas Barrow's mouth against his. It was only a ghost of a kiss, but it haunted him still.

"No," he said, and he made sure to make eye contact with Miss O' Brien as he said it. "I don't know what Miss O' Brien is talking about."

_Take that, you raddled, saw-toothed bitch, _he thought triumphantly_. _She'd tried to manipulate him into doing what she wanted, and then, when _that _hadn't worked, she'd tried to force his hand. _Well, too bad for __you__, it didn't work_, he told her silently, as he stared her down.

"Well, that's that then," Mrs Hughes said, "All resolved." She began to move toward the door.

Miss O' Brien didn't twitch a muscle, but she halted Mrs Hughes in her tracks. "That's all you're going to say, is it? Forgive me for saying this, but it seems a very cursory handling of the matter."

Back straight, Mrs Hughes slowly turned around. "On the contrary, Miss O' Brien. I feel that I have given this matter exactly the amount of attention it deserves. You've made your allegation," Jimmy wondered whether he'd imagined the slight pause before the word 'allegation,' as if Mrs Hughes would have liked to substitute another, less careful word, " – and I have asked James about it. He has denied it, and I see no reason to doubt his word." Her gaze rested on Jimmy for an uncomfortable moment, "James does not strike me as a shrinking violet."

For some reason, he felt bizarrely chastised.

"With all due respect, Miss O' Brien – I fail to see what else we might be expected to do," Mr Carson agreed.

"The problem I have is that in a case such as this, involving manipulation and intimidation…the victim may not be inclined to be _truthful_," Miss O' Brien said.

Jimmy frowned, because Miss O' Brien still didn't seem _beaten, _despite his outright denial. Unease twisted and turned inside him.

Mrs Hughes made an impatient noise, "We can ask Mr Barrow to come in, I suppose, but since you won't take Jimmy's word for it, I don't see how anything _Thomas_ says will convince you."

"I have a suggestion," Miss O' Brien said. Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes exchanged glances. "I think the opinion of a third party might be helpful in shedding some light on this situation."

Mrs Hughes frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I've already told you my suspicions" –

"Yes," Mrs Hughes said, cutting her off. "I think we're all quite aware of your suspicions – but as a rule, I try to put my faith in something a little stronger than idle tittle-tattle and malicious gossip."

Thank _fuck _Jimmy had never actually come out and _said _what had happened between he and Mr Barrow to the woman. Who knew what damage she would be able to do, if he'd ever actually _confided _in her? She had already created a battering ram from nothing more than insinuations and allusions.

"_You've_ noticed it, Mr Carson. I know you have. The two of them – living in each others' pockets one day, and the next, Jimmy can't stand to be in the same room. As manager of Downton, surely you have some _concerns_?"

"Arguments between two people have been known to happen," Mrs Hughes said. "I hardly think we need to immediately jump to the most sinister conclusion!"

Mr Carson looked as if he were debating something within himself. Finally, he said, "What exactly did you have in mind, Miss O' Brien?"

Mrs Hughes huffed a put out sounding breath. "Alfred," Miss O' Brien said, and Jimmy didn't think he imagined the look of victory that flickered briefly across her face.

Fuck.

"Alfred?" Mr Carson said.

"You should ask him. I think you'll find he's in a position to tell you exactly what's been happening. And we all know how honest he is. To a fault."

Fuck.

Alfred _was _stupidly, ridiculously, heart-on-sleeve, brain-on-autopilot honest, and while Jimmy had never actually let slip to Miss O' Brien what exactly had happened between he and Mr Barrow…

…_Alfred_ was a completely different story.

And going by the look on Miss O' Brien's face – she _knew _that.

Jimmy's heart began to race. His only hope was that Mr Carson would shut this line of thinking down _right now _and refuse straight out, because –

"I'll send for Alfred," Mr Carson decided.

_Fuck. _

"I'll get him," Mrs Hughes said. "And Thomas too," she added significantly. "He deserves to hear what's being said about him, at least. As well as a chance to defend himself."

Jimmy burst out with, "I don't want you to!" He took a breath, trying to express himself more calmly. "I've already _said, _haven't I? So it's a waste of time."

"I don't see that that should matter very much," Miss O' Brien said. "It's very simple. Either Alfred will agree with you, in which case, you've got nothing to worry about - or Alfred _won't _agree…in which case, we really _ought _to know."

She cocked her head to the side, and defeated, Jimmy had to look away. Mrs Hughes closed the door behind her with a decisive click. Until she reappeared, the office was thick with silence. Jimmy stared at the wall and tried not to let panic overwhelm him, even though his stomach was trying to crawl up his throat.

When Mrs Hughes returned, she ushered Mr Barrow into the office. "Alfred's just finishing up – he'll be along in a moment," she said.

Mr Barrow's gaze swept over Jimmy, then Miss O' Brien, and Mr Carson asked, "Thomas, are you aware of why you've been called in here this morning?"

"No idea, Mr Carson," Mr Barrow said, tipping his chin up and speaking with brazen confidence.

But that was a lie – Jimmy knew it…because as soon as he'd stepped inside, Thomas Barrow had looked at him with a stiff expression and hurt eyes.

It was…Jimmy would have _thought _it was what he'd wanted. He'd wanted Mr Barrow to take this seriously, as seriously as _he _did. He'd wanted to make Mr Barrow feel the way he had – shaken and unnerved and…and _betrayed _in some strange way. He didn't know _why _Thomas Barrow's actions had felt so like a personal betrayal to him – but they had. And that was what Jimmy had wanted _him _to feel in return.

Except it wasn't. It wasn't what Jimmy wanted at all, because as soon he'd recognized his own feelings on Thomas Barrow's face, read the betrayed look in his eyes as clear as day – as if he'd still somehow _trusted _Jimmy, in spite of everything…instead of satisfaction, he felt as if he'd been hit.

"I've already told you," he said, "I don't have any problem with Mr Barrow. I've _never_ said a word against him. I don't know why you're even asking me!"

He didn't think it would help – not in the long run, not when Alfred on his way, an unstoppable atom bomb of truth…but he at least wanted to let Thomas Barrow know, as best he could, that this was nothing to do with him.

He thought he saw a flicker of relief cross Mr Barrow's face, though it was quickly hidden.

"Miss O' Brien seems to feel that you...may have made some inappropriate and unwanted advances toward James," Mrs Hughes said. "We're trying to get to the bottom of it." She stood almost next to Mr Barrow, as if she were flanking him.

There was a long pause as Mr Barrow looked Miss O' Brien up and down. "You're claiming I've been _harassing_ him – is that it? Well, you certainly kept that close to your chest, didn't you?" As well as bitter, he sounded, strangely, almost admiring.

Unperturbed, Miss O' Brien said, "I don't make these allegations lightly. This isn't a _game_, Thomas."

Jimmy thought of their smoking-break conversation, and gritted his teeth. Just then, there was a knock on the door, and a confused looking Alfred entered the now quite-crowded office.

"Ah, Alfred," Mr Carson said. "Good. We find ourselves in need of your assistance."

Alfred shifted from foot to foot, glancing between each person, and said, "Well…I'll be glad to help if I can, Mr Carson."

"Now, don't be nervous," Mr Carson told him. "All you have to do is give an honest answer" – and in spite of the situation, Jimmy could have rolled his eyes. It was _obvious _how much more Mr Carson liked Alfred than him. _He _was the alleged victim of sexual harassment here, and Mr Carson'd hardly thrown so much as a sympathetic look his way. Meanwhile, he was all but holding Alfred's hand and patting him on the shoulder over the terrible trauma of putting a _sentence _together.

"Some – questions have been raised about the nature of the relationship between James and Mr Barrow here. Allegations have been made, and it's important, for everyone's sake, that we get to the truth of the matter. So, I'm asking _you_, Alfred – has James ever mentioned Mr Barrow saying or doing anything that made him feel – uncomfortable?"

Fuck. This was it then. The end.

Alfred licked his lips and said, "Well…"

Mr Carson stared unblinkingly at him. Miss O' Brien slowly leaned forward in her chair. Mr Barrow went very very still. "That is…" Alfred cleared his throat and his eyes darted to Jimmy.

Who took a sudden chance and shook his head, almost imperceptibly. It was a risk, but everyone's focus was on _Alfred_, not him. Well – _almost_ everyone, he had to amend, as he looked away, and caught Mrs Hughes' eye.

He tensed, waiting for her to cry foul – but a second later, she closed her mouth and her expression snapped back to impassivity. Jimmy held his breath and hoped that just this _one _time, Alfred would tuck conscientiousness away and imitate Pinocchio.

"See…we talk about a lot of things, Jimmy and me. What with being flatmates and all. And it's not like I _record_ any of these conversations…" Alfred said slowly, before continuing in a firmer tone. "But…I think I'd remember something like that, Mr Carson."

"So – you're saying…"

"No. He never said a word to me about anything like that," Alfred said.

Jimmy closed his eyes. The relief was so palpable it felt like he was melting.

"_Alfred,_" Miss O' Brien said, and Jimmy could hardly keep from grinning right in her suddenly-appalled face. "I don't think that you know what you're saying" –

"Now Miss O' Brien, let's not badger the poor boy," Mrs Hughes said briskly. "He's answered the question, and as you said _yourself_, we all know how honest he is." She turned and opened the door. "Now, if we're all _quite _finished with this _pantomime_, I know I, for one, have work to do."

She held the door open, looking pointedly at Miss O' Brien, who finally, with a visible effort, stood up from her seat and walked out. Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows at the rest of them, and meekly, one by one, they filed out. As Jimmy turned to leave, however, Mr Carson cleared his throat and said, "As a matter of interest, James, might I ask the _real _reason behind your and Mr Barrow's falling out?"

Jimmy stared at him, and his mind went completely blank for a few seconds, before his mental gears started to whir and turn once more. "A bet," he said. "We…made a bet, and I lost."

"Hm," Mr Carson said. Jimmy couldn't tell whether he believed him or not.

Outside the office, Alfred was waiting. As soon as Jimmy appeared, he began to say, "Was it alright, what I s" – and Jimmy had to hiss, "Not here!"

"But that _was_ the right thing to say?" Alfred pressed, as Jimmy grabbed his arm and pulled him to a safe distance.

Jimmy dropped his elbow and admitted, "Yeah, it was – it was the right thing. Thanks," he added, in a low voice.

"It's all right. I mean, I just thought – if I tell the truth, not only does Mr Barrow end up in a lot of trouble…but you look like a right idiot," Alfred said kindly.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at him.

"I don't know what my aunt was thinking though," Alfred said. "I mean, that's _serious, _complaining someone like that. I don't think she likes Mr Barrow very much."

Jimmy stared at him. With what he considered great restraint, he said, "I don't think she likes _anyone_ very much. Remind me never to pop around to her house for tea. I bet she serves arsenic sandwiches."

"She's not as bad as all that!" Alfred said. Clearly, lying to Mr Carson must have gone straight to his head, Jimmy thought.

* * *

It was strange, but after all that – fighting tooth and nail to keep his new job, throwing his lot in completely and irrevocably with Thomas Barrow…

…he still had to pause and gather himself before knocking on the office door.

"Come in," Mr Barrow called, but he stilled as soon as Jimmy entered, just standing at his desk and looking at Jimmy as if he'd never seen him before.

"I'm starting today," Jimmy reminded him.

"I know," he said, but he didn't stop staring, and that terrible openness was on his face again, the expression Jimmyremembered so clearly from _that night_. "I just – I wanted to say" –

_Don't, _Jimmy thought, and a great wash of apprehension swept through him, leaving him cold to his fingertips. He felt, strangely, more dread than he had in Mr Carson's office, when everything seemed hopeless. _Don't._

But Thomas Barrow just kept looking at him with all that _feeling _on his face, and even though all he said in the end was, " – thank you," Jimmy couldn't _bear _it. He couldn't breathe. He had to make it stop.

"I didn't do it for you," he said – and he watched as Mr Barrow's face closed up, neatly and precisely, like a conjurer's trick. He felt something that was oddly like relief…and oddly _not_, at the same time.

"Of course not," Mr Barrow said, voice smooth and opaque once more. He gave a small smile – cursory, impersonal – and said, "Let's get to work, shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10

It was the worst first day ever. Which, it wasn't that he'd expected a day that had begun with an investigation of sexual harassment to be a _good_ one – but it failed to clear the low bar set by even Jimmy's minimal expectations.

It was that _room. _It was so small that it was impossible not to be skin-crawlingly aware at all times of where Thomas Barrow's body was in relation to his own. He resolutely kept his head down and stared at his computer screen, but that didn't matter. He didn't need to _look _to feel Mr Barrow's presence.

It didn't help that the work they were doing related to the _exhibition. _To be fair, Mr Barrow had been planning this exhibition for some time, but in Jimmy's mind, it was tied inexorably to _that night. _It was Pavlovian – he immediately thought of Mr Barrow's mouth every time he saw the scanned photograph of Lily Jones.

It turned out that she _had_ made housekeeper, in the end. Jimmy looked into her uptilted, determined face, and wondered whether the seventy pounds a year had been worth it.

Adding to the awkwardness was the fact that Mr Barrow had also taken Jimmy's advice as regards Ned Able – the groom Lily Jones had liked, according to Alfred's long-ago relative. There wasn't very much evidence, either way, but there was enough to construct _some _kind of relationship – a household crisis where Ned Able had oddly had to pitch in as His Lordship's valet for a month, a dark reference to the two of them being "thick as thieves," in Alfred's old relative's letters, and then another, later mention that "Lily Jones neglects her duties lately – no doubt she has her mind on other things," all capped by the interesting fact that Ned Able had left Downton's employ straight after Lily Jones' promotion to housekeeper…

Ned Able, Jimmy thought, had had the right idea. At least, if his situation with Lily Jones was even a fraction as awkward as Jimmy's with Mr Barrow. Because Jimmy's chair was right in front of the bookshelf, every time Mr Barrow needed a ledger, Jimmy had to stand and grit his teeth as Mr Barrow squeezed past him, brushing arms, and shoulders and chests. In return Mr Barrow had to push his chair back and press himself against the wall whenever Jimmy passed him to get to the phone – and Jimmy needed the phone quite often. Mr Barrow was trying to organize some kind of grand opening to the exhibition, and was hoping to entice the Family into attending, for maximum publicity.

Before, Jimmy might have made some comment about putting the Family to work, shilling the exhibition and signing autographs or something…but this wasn't _before. _It was _after. _And so, Jimmy kept his mouth shut.

There was no one crowning moment of awfulness – but the sheer unremitting discomfort of the whole situation that left him with tight shoulders and an ache in his neck.

This meant that when work finished, the last thing he wanted was to go out for a drink. But Alfred and Ivy were insistent.

"I don't know about you, but I could do with a drink, after this morning," Alfred said.

"Oh come on – we _have _to do something to celebrate your new job. First round's on me," Ivy wheedled.

All this meant that the three of them – plus Daisy – ended up in _The Dog and Duck_, clutching their drinks and trying to hear each other over the band playing in the corner. Ivy leaned in close to him and shouted in his ear, "You must be pleased though – I mean, the job and the raise and all."

He thought of the office, and the loaded silence, and the constant, maddening brush of Mr Barrow's body against his own. His heart clenched. "Oh yeah," he said.

"I think it's good. That you're so _ambitious_, like. It's – I like it," she said, as she fiddled with a strand of her long hair.

"I'm ambitious!" Alfred said, gracelessly barging into the conversation.

"I don't think ordering every appetizer on the menu whenever we go out to dinner counts as 'ambitious'," Ivy informed him.

Alfred ignored this. "No – really. This, this…new business opportunity just dropped into my lap today." He said the words 'new business opportunity' with a kind of experimental flourish.

Daisy immediately jumped in, supporting him. "He's right," she said. "He was having lunch in the café today when Thomas just came up and" –

"Can we not talk about Mr Barrow right now?" Jimmy interrupted.

Daisy frowned, but even as she said, uncertainly, "All right," her eyes darted past him. He turned slowly, but there was a weight in his stomach. He already knew what he was going to see.

That didn't mean it was any less galling to find Thomas Barrow leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand. His eyes caught Jimmy's and he nodded, but Jimmy deliberately turned away.

"I can't believe _he's_ here_._" After the day Jimmy had just had – a day _filled _with _nothing but _Thomas Barrow…it was suddenly _too much. _"D'you think he followed me?"

Alfred snorted. "Of course he did. _Irresistible _you are."

"Maybe he just wants to have a drink," Daisy said.

"I'm going home," Jimmy said, setting his drink down on the small round table by his elbow.

Ivy caught his arm, "_No – _don't. Don't let this spoil things. I know you're upset, but it's not _worth_ it."

She left her hand on his arm, and Jimmy took a breath. He wasn't _upset. _He wasn't. He _was_ trapped in a stressful and awkward and eye-clawingly horrible situation…but that didn't mean that he was _upset. _Understandably _annoyed, _maybe, but not _upset_.

"You're right," he said, and managed a smile.

Ivy smiled back, relieved. "Oh, _good. _I'm glad. After all – you've got to put it behind you sometime."

He stared at her in incomprehension. He didn't see how he was supposed to put it _behind him _when _it_ kept tapping his shoulder, and squeezing in close to him. Leaning across him to get books. Following him to the pub and _nodding_ at him.

He forced himself to remain standing where he was, and plastered the most credible-looking smile on his face that he could. His back was to the bar, and Mr Barrow, but he could feel the other man's eyes on him – though every time he risked a look, Mr Barrow seemed engaged by the band. Jimmy couldn't concentrate on what anyone was saying.

He finished his drink and put his glass down decisively. "Same again?" he asked Ivy, who smiled at him and agreed.

Heart thumping, he made his way to the bar, crowding in next to Mr Barrow. He stared straight ahead until the barman took his order, though he could see, out of the corner of his eye, Mr Barrow studying him. After he'd paid, and his drinks had been put in front of him, Jimmy finally turned to the side.

Mr Barrow raised his eyebrows slightly, but his voice was even. "Hello."

"What are you looking at?" Jimmy demanded, without preamble.

Mr Barrow's eyebrows climbed even higher. "What?" he asked, sounding confused.

"You're _looking _at me," Jimmy said, daring him to deny it.

He didn't. "Well, if you knew the answer, I don't know why you bothered to ask the question," he said finally.

"Because I want you to _stop._"

For the first time, Mr Barrow seemed a little exasperated. "It's called my line of sight, and I can't help it if you put yourself in it."

"I didn't _put _myself anywhere," Jimmy said, stung. "_You're _the one who came here" –

"So I'm not allowed to _go out_ now?" Mr Barrow's voice rose, incredulous. "I might be wrong, but last I checked, people like me _were_ allowed to _mingle._ Believe it or not, if I cough, you're not going to come down with a ragin' case of _gay. _Not even," he added, "if I don't cover my mouth."

It wasn't that. It _wasn't – _even if Jimmy did feel a kind of irritated embarrassment at Mr Barrow's words, stating things so baldly. It was just…there had to be some kind of – of _rules _for this. Surely there had to be _somewhere_, some space where Mr Barrow wasn't allowed to intrude on Jimmy's thoughts? He'd go mad otherwise.

He couldn't explain that though, so he settled for saying, "I was here first."

"Bully for you," Mr Barrow said, unmoved. "Now if you don't mind, I've got a drink to finish, and I think I feel a cough coming on."

Jimmy stomped away from the bar, drink sloshing out of both glasses and over his fingers. "All right?" Ivy asked.

"Perfect," he said, and he made sure to smile. He also made sure that he didn't throw back his drink too fast, and when Alfred suggested another, he agreed, even though Mr Barrow was still at the bar. He wasn't going to just run out of there with his tail between his legs – he wouldn't give Mr Barrow the satisfaction.

Still, all the while, the anger he felt grew hotter and hotter, smouldering cherry red in his chest, throwing off poisonous smoke. Alfred traded a few words with Mr Barrow before his order arrived, and then – and _then, _Mr Barrow actually helped him to carry the drinks over.

"Thanks," Ivy said, as he handed over her glass. Jimmy didn't have to say anything – because Alfred had his. Not that he would have anyway.

"Not at all," Mr Barrow said, and a little awkwardly, Daisy jumped in with, "D'you – would you like to stay and have a drink with us?"

Jimmy took a breath – to say what, he didn't know – but he didn't have to, in the end, because Mr Barrow was already declining. "No thanks, Daisy," he said, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. Jimmy wondered whether anyone else caught the quick way his eyes flicked to Jimmy, and away again. "Another time."

After he'd made his way back to the bar, Jimmy took a too-large gulp from his glass – it hurt his throat going down.

And Ivy said, "That wasn't very sensitive to Jimmy's feelings, you know."

"What was I supposed to say?" Daisy defended. "He was just stood there – I couldn't be rude. Jimmy's not the only one with feelings, you know."

The girls' argument sounded dim in his ears. There was a rushing sensation in his body. He couldn't think clearly, except for one, overriding compulsion that seemed to suddenly drive his every action.

"Can we just _drop it?_" Alfred said, with a sharpness that he didn't usually possess.

"All _right_," Ivy said huffily, half-turning her back to him. "You don't need to shout about it."

Jimmy carefully replaced his half-empty glass on the table, marveling at how smooth the movement seemed and how steady his hands were, when inside he was careening like a pinball. He took hold of Ivy's arm, pulling her even further away from the others, creating a private space for the two of them.

"I just wanted to say thanks," he said. "You've been really – helpful during all…this." He gave the barest jerk of his head toward the bar.

Ivy looked pleased. Her cheeks went pink, which made her look soft, and even prettier than usual. She _was_ a very pretty girl, he reminded himself. It was strange how often he forgot that. "Oh, that's all right. I was – I was glad to help."

"Well, I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate it," he said. He raised his left hand to her face, to cup her cheek.

"Oh…" she said, in a breathless kind of voice. "Jimmy, do you" –

_I'll give you something to look at, _Jimmy thought, quite clearly, within the jumble of adrenaline, and anger, and something almost like dread. And he bent his head, and kissed her.

She had something on her lips – lipgloss or balm or something, and she tasted like synthetic strawberries. It was disconcerting, and when he drew back, he had the urge to wipe his mouth.

She looked at him, eyes wide. It felt to Jimmy like they were on a small island of stillness. Maybe because Daisy and Alfred had stopped speaking, and were staring at them. His heart pounded in his ears and blood rushed dizzily through his veins, and he thought, _Like what you see __now? _before sliding his right hand through Ivy's hair, and kissing her again.

It was like being in a play. And when he pulled back this time, the words came out easily, as if they had been scripted. "Can we go home?" he asked.

Ivy swallowed, and her mouth opened, and he thought _Don't say no. You __can't__ say no. _He would go mad if he didn't find something_, somewhere _that Thomas Barrow couldn't leave his fingerprints. Jimmy caught her hand between his, and said, "Please."

He saw something in her face change as she looked at him, and she nodded. "All right," she said, in that same breathless tone.

He didn't look at Alfred or Daisy, and he certainly didn't look in Mr Barrow's direction (though for once, he _hoped _Mr Barrow was looking at _him_). He kept hold of Ivy's hand and led her out of the bar.


	11. Chapter 11

Er...I appear to be writing a long-winded, more romance-driven version of Pinocchio. If it's any consolation, Jimmy turns into a real boy soon...?

* * *

The next day dawned in shades of pastel and deepest regret, as Jimmy cracked an eye open and squinted at the peach-coloured wall opposite. His stomach lurched. Slowly, he turned his head and looked down. Long brown hair spread across the pillow. His stomach lurched again.

Just then, the owner of the long brown hair turned over and Ivy opened her eyes and stared straight at him. Jimmy froze. She smiled, a small, soft smile. "Morning," she said, and under the blankets, her foot slid against his leg. Jimmy fought the urge to pull back and worked his face into an answering smile.

"Time's it?" she asked, and stifled a yawn.

"I don't know," Jimmy said, grasping at this straw. "But I'd better get…" he jerked his thumb in the direction of the door, and slid his legs onto the floor.

"Mmm," Ivy agreed, but grabbed his arm, and pulled him down for a kiss. "I'll see you in a while, then," she whispered, before she let him go.

Jimmy took a step back. "Yeah. A while," he said, and began to collect his clothes.

As he pulled Ivy's bedroom door shut behind him, he came face to face with Alfred, just coming out of the bathroom. They both stopped dead, and Alfred stared at him, with wounded eyes.

There was something so – embarrassingly juvenile about it, being caught creeping out of a girl's room while wearing only boxers and an unbuttoned shirt, the rest of his clothes clutched in his arms. But Jimmy straightened his shoulders a bit, and tried to be adult about it. "Alfred," he said, and cleared his throat. "…you alright?" Alfred's lack of movement was making him nervous. He kept looking at Jimmy as if he hadn't even heard the question.

Just then, the door behind him opened, and Ivy appeared. "You forgot this," she informed Jimmy, and dropped one black sock on top of the pile of clothing he held in his arms. She kissed his cheek, then smiled at Alfred. "Are you done with the bathroom yet?" she asked.

This appeared to jolt Alfred out of his slightly worrying fugue state, and he jerked his head in something that almost looked like a nod, before shambling off down the hall, moving like a bear that had a thorn in its paw.

"Keep some breakfast for me," Ivy instructed Jimmy, clasping his face in her hands as she bestowed one last kiss, before picking her way into the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, and the shower started, Jimmy slumped, thumping the back of his head once against the wall.

He had a sinking feeling that he had found himself in a mess of four-letter proportions.

After he had changed and cleaned himself up a little, he braced himself and made his way to the kitchen, where Alfred sat at the table, shoulders rounded. He appeared to be staring down at an empty bowl. The box of cereal was at his elbow, but it looked like he'd forgotten about it.

"Morning," Jimmy said carefully. Alfred didn't reply.

"What time'd you get back last night?" No answer.

"Daisy get home okay?" The continued silence indicated an unflattering lack of concern for Daisy's wellbeing.

Jimmy wandered over to the bread bin, to find only one slice left. He fired it into the toaster anyway, and said, "Look – it's…you don't have to be like _this _about it. It just happened, it's not – it doesn't _change_ anything."

Alfred finally raised his eyes to Jimmy. "Right. And if I asked Ivy, she'd say the same thing about it?"

Jimmy had to look away.

"Yeah. I didn't think so," Alfred said. He shook the box of cereal so hard over his bowl that several pieces skittered across the table and onto the floor.

The slice of toast popped up, and Jimmy placed it on a plate and warily sat down opposite Alfred. Bits of cereal crunched under his shoes, and he winced.

Just then, Ivy breezed into the kitchen. "Morning," she caroled, walking around the table to the side where Jimmy sat. He pulled his chair in to make room for her, but she bypassed the other seat in favour of perching on Jimmy's lap. One hand wound around his shoulders, while she plucked the slice of toast from his suddenly nerveless fingers with the other.

"Ooh – I know I don't usually, but I am _starving _this morning," she said, before biting into it. She chewed and swallowed. "Did you have a good night last night, Alfred?" she asked, swinging her leg. She took another bite of toast and her foot brushed against Jimmy's calf as she did so. Jimmy shifted as best he could in his seat.

Alfred did not answer, but instead turned his attention to his bowl, crunching his way through the cereal as if it had been mixed with ground glass.

Jimmy began to suspect that he was knee-deepin mess.

This suspicion was only confirmed when Ivy said, "I'll go in with Jimmy today," to Alfred. She looked at Jimmy and smiled, slipping her hand into his. "Might as well share."

In the car, when Jimmy said, "Look – I just think that maybe we shouldn't say anything about _this_… not right now…" she simply laughed and said, "Well I'm not going to _hide _it. Besides, Daisy's probably already told everyone. She's not exactly discreet."

Jimmy mentally revised his opinion and categorized himself as _waist-deep _in mess. It was too late to extricate himself though, and with a sinking feeling, he pulled in to a parking space. He couldn't help trying though, even if it felt like he was wriggling hopelessly inside a trap. "Still – I think we should try and keep it quiet for now. Until we have a chance to – _talk_ about it, at least."

"Why – are you shy?" Ivy teased. "I'll have to help you get over that, then. 'Cos you've got no reason to be," and she twisted in her seat to kiss him. He kept facing forward, so she only caught the side of his face.

Inside Downton, she grabbed his wrist and asked, "D'you want a cup of tea?" but he said, with relief, "I can't or I'll be late."

As he hurried away from her, shoulders finally uncoiling, through the corridors towards his and Mr Barrow's office, Ivy had one more surprise for him, darting after him, and swinging him around, then launching herself at him with such force that he staggered backwards a step or two. His hands rose up instinctively, but hovered by his sides, carefully not touching her as she grasped his shoulders and kissed him hard.

It was the sound of throat-clearing that tore them apart. Jimmy had never been so grateful in all his life for a stranger's excess of phlegm…until Ivy whirled away from him (though she still clasped his hand) and he saw that his rescuer was Mr Carson, who affixed them with outraged eyebrows and said, "Would you two deem this…_acceptable _workplace behavior?"

Jimmy's cheeks burned, but Ivy didn't even drop his hand, though it was limp and unresponsive in hers. Rather she smiled and said, "I'm sorry, Mr Carson, but…when you're in love, you just can't help yourself. Surely you know all about that." Mr Carson's expression didn't change, and she ventured, a little more uncertainly, "…or you might have read about it, at least."

There was a ringing in Jimmy's ears. _In __love, _he thought. _Fuck, __Fuck,__ FUCK._

Mr Carson hmphed. "_If _I ever had those sorts of feelings, Ivy, I trust that I had the good manners and common courtesy to keep them to myself. As will _you_, while on duty."

"Yes Mr Carson," she muttered, chastened – but only until he walked away, every so often casting suspicious glances behind him.

"I'll see you at lunchtime," she said to Jimmy then, squeezing his palm once before letting go. Jimmy bolted.

Mr Barrow's office had never seemed more like a haven, a refuge.

Well, that was until he actually opened the door, and had to _face_ Mr Barrow, who was standing behind his desk looking – looking like he _always _did, smart and put together. And completely…unaffected, despite Jimmy's best attempts to unsettle him.

He raised an eyebrow and said, "Good morning," with bland politeness.

And it just – it made Jimmy want to walk over there and _shove _him, put his hands on him and _push, _until Thomas Barrow was out of breath and his hair was untidy and his collar stuck up and his shirt was rumpled and there was _some physical sign _that he was as discomposed and shaken as he always made Jimmy feel.

But given that kind of thinking had just landed him with a girlfriend who had the consistency of superglue, it probably wasn't a good idea to indulge it. So he just sat in his chair and put his head down.

"Good night last night?" Mr Barrow asked, with deliberate mildness, and Jimmy forced the words, "All right," out through gritted teeth.

The problem of Ivy kept crossing his mind that morning, as he tapped out letters on his keyboard and made phone calls. He didn't see how he was going to get out of it. It had been a stupid impulse, nothing more – and surely she had to see that, that…

…well, all right, she probably wasn't going to instinctively intuit that he'd slept with her to prove a point to Mr Barrow, but surely…she had to see that it had been sudden, unexpected…

She had to realize that you couldn't just _ambush _someone with affection and cow them into a relationship. It didn't work like that. _Jimmy _didn't work like that.

He felt a sudden surge of resentment toward Ivy and Mr Barrow, toward anyone who'd built him up in their minds into something he wasn't, something he'd never pretended to be. In Ivy's case, the feeling was tempered by guilt, which strangely, made the resentment ten times worse.

The exhibition was coming together though, and despite the confusing jumble of Thomas Barrow and Ivy Stuart littering his thoughts, Jimmy focused on that with a determination that was almost radioactive in its zeal. He _would not _be anything less than perfectly competent and in control while speaking with Mr Barrow. Even if it killed him.

And Mr Barrow solicited his opinion on the whole thing frequently – he could have been just asking, but Jimmy looked at it as a kind of test, and took care with every answer.

"Edna or Alfred?" Mr Barrow asked. "To narrate?"

Most of the Family had been talked into attending the exhibition, and the names of those who remained noncommittal (or downright unpleasant) about it had been given to Matthew Crawley, who would presumably talk them around with his particular brand of winsome blandness, as well as some judicious pulling on family ties.

"Both," Jimmy said, after some consideration. "Get _her_ to talk them through Lily Jones' journey, and Alfred can chime in with Ned's bits."

He was pleased with this idea, and so to, it seemed, was Mr Barrow, because he raised his eyebrows and said, "Not bad."

Jimmy felt pleased, but that was followed by a stab of irritation that Mr Barrow's opinion should mean anything to him still. "I'll ask Alfred later," he said.

Mr Barrow leaned back in his seat. "What about the letters?" he challenged. Bristling with unpleasantness as they were, Alfred's old relative's letters provided a sort of necessary backdrop for both stories.

Without thinking, and because now he heard every poisonous word in a very familiar voice, Jimmy found himself saying, "Oh well, only one person it _could_ be" –

He stopped, but Mr Barrow obviously had the same idea, because his mouth quirked, and he said, a little regretfully, "Don't think she'd do it though. Not if I asked, anyway."

Not for the first time, Jimmy wondered what exactly had happened between Mr Barrow and Miss O' Brien. After all, Jimmy hadn't been the only one she had wronged, and she and Mr Barrow had _seemed_ to be friends.

Unaware of Jimmy's thoughts, Mr Barrow continued, musing, "Maybe if Mr _Carson_ did the asking…"

Jimmy opened his mouth, then jumped at the knock on the door, which was followed, without even a second's pause, by Ivy. Jimmy jumped, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, and then flushed for having reacted like that, but Ivy didn't seem to notice, looking straight at Mr Barrow and saying, "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr Barrow, only it's lunchtime and I was hoping I could steal Jimmy for a bit."

"We were _working _on something," Jimmy pointed out, because this was his _job, _and Ivy couldn't just barge in like she was rescuing him from Double Maths or a French exam. Irritation sparked under his skin.

"That's all right," Mr Barrow said, and the traces of amusement that had touched the corners of his mouth smoothed into nothingness, and he looked, though he did not move at all, as if he had somehow taken a step back, distanced himself. Jimmy gritted his teeth. "He's all yours – we were almost finished anyway."

Ivy smiled at him, and then turned to Jimmy. "Well come on, then," she said, and pulled him to his feet.

"You can't do that," he said abruptly, as they made their way toward the café. At her inquiring look, he added, "You can't just come in and" –

"Oh, yeah, because you really wanted to be alone with Mr Barrow," she laughed.

And it wasn't that – it _wasn't, _but what she said made his mouth snap shut all the same, even as some spring coiled tighter and tighter inside of him.

She hung off his shoulder as he stood at the counter and selected from the menu, but when he asked, "What about you?" (a little ungraciously, but still…), she laughed again and said, "Oh, I'm fine. I'm not hungry."

Mrs Patmore watched all this with raised eyebrows, as a small gaggle of girl-guides crowded around the jar of striped straws at the counter. "This _is_ a turn up for the books," she said, and then, "I've told you! One straw each, and that's all!"

Her eyes slid back to Ivy, who was doing a good job of living up to her namesake, body practically welded to Jimmy's side.

Jimmy looked away and didn't answer. He'd _asked, _hadn't he? And even if Ivy'd said she wasn't going to keep quiet about it, there was a difference between _not hiding_ something, and screaming it from the rooftops. The girl-guides wandered past, a striped straw clutched in each of their hands. One of them elbowed another as they walked past Jimmy and Ivy, and a few steps later, they both broke down in giggles. Jimmy felt like he was back at _school_.

"_I_ think it's nice," Daisy chirped.

"Well of course _you_ do," Mrs Patmore said dismissively, and Daisy retreated, looking chagrined.

"Jimmy's a bit shy about it, yet," Ivy told her, poking Jimmy in the ribs, "but I'm coaxing that out of him."

"Oh, I can see _that_," Mrs Patmore said, eyes fixed on Ivy's clinging hands. She shook her head. "Jimmy…_shy. _Well, I suppose it's true what they say. You learn something new every day." She paused, and as she slid his sandwich across the counter, she added, under her breath, "And there really _is_ one born every minute."

As usual, they ate lunch with Alfred, though today he stiffened as they took their seats opposite him. "Any news?" Ivy asked Alfred breezily, and he stared at her hand where it rested atop Jimmy's on the table. He shook his head. "No."

Jimmy moved his hand away, but Ivy immediately wrapped her hand around his inner elbow instead. Her leg pressed firmly against his, from ankle to thigh. He felt like he was suffocating.

"We should go out tonight," Ivy said, addressing Jimmy. "Make it official, like."

"Now's not such a good time," he said, as civilly as he could. "With the exhibition and all."

"I'm not taking no for an answer," Ivy told him airily.

That was painfully evident, even without words. He forced himself to say nothing. They could talk at home, he told himself.

" – need to do _something_ to celebrate."

"You could have a picnic on the grounds," Daisy said, breaking in on their conversation as she cleared the table behind Alfred. "I've always wanted someone to do that with me," she said, bestowing a longing look on Alfred's unsuspecting ginger head.

"That's a brilliant idea!" Ivy said. "All right – that's what we'll do." She smiled at him and ran a hand through his hair. The girl guides a few tables away giggled again. Jimmy moved his head back.

"D'you mind not doing that?" he said, and took a big bite of his sandwich to prevent himself from saying anything else. He had a feeling the pleasant look he was endeavouring to keep on his face had stretched and sagged like old elastic.

Ivy giggled. "He's ever so shy," she told Daisy. "I'd never have believed it." Jimmy chewed and chewed. He could feel the spring inside of him pulled taut, almost to breaking point.

And then Ivy reached over him and took the second half of his sandwich.

Jimmy swallowed down the mass in his own mouth before he said, "I thought you said you weren't hungry."

"I only want a bite," Ivy said.

He couldn't stop himself – in spite of his best efforts, a little unpleasantness leaked out, like steam from a kettle. "You could have _asked _first."

"Ooh, someone's possessive," Ivy teased, and that was it – something inside him snapped.

"Could you just _stop it?_"

"What?" Ivy asked. "What are you talking about?"

The chair legs scraped against the floor as he got to his feet. "What am I -?" he repeated, and raked a hand through his hair, "I'm talking about _you. _Can't you just _leave it?" _he said, all in a rush, words tumbling over one another heedlessly, "Why do you have to keep _pushing_ and _pushing_? I _asked – _I said not to make a fuss, but you won't stop going _on_ and _on_, and I _know _it happened, I'm not saying it _didn't_ – but I never meant it to go this far, and you can't just, just…_assume _someone into a relationship if that's not what they _want_."

He was suddenly aware that he was being stared at by a contingent of gape-mouthed girl guides. Ivy got to her feet unsteadily. Her face was pale. She took a small breath in – and it was that soft hitch of sound that brought Jimmy fully back to himself.

"I – Ivy, I'm" – he began, and he took a step toward her, but she immediately stepped backwards, before turning and rushing for the Ladies toilet.

…_fuck_.

The café was deathly quiet, until the screech of another chair ripped through the silence. "Alfred – look, I didn't mean to upset" –

"You didn't _mean _to," Alfred repeated, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Oh, _that's _all right then. Because you _didn't mean to." _He stared at Jimmy, his jaw working furiously. "Well just because it doesn't matter to _you_, doesn't mean no-one else cares. And you can't – you can't _treat_ people like that! You – you can't treat _Ivy _like that" –

And without warning, his hands shot out across the table and _shoved _Jimmy, who staggered backwards, tripping over the leg of the table and knocking his head against the back of his own chair, which promptly joined in the fall, skittering onto its side several yards away. Daisy shrieked. Jimmy sprawled on the floor disoriented, while above him, Alfred loomed like a ginger avenging angel.

"All right! That's _it_! There'll be no fisticuffs in _my _café! I won't stand for it!" came a voice from off to the side. Jimmy blinked, and suddenly, Mrs Patmore had a firm grip on Alfred's ear (Alfred was almost folded in two to accommodate this, due to the height difference).

"Oh, don't hurt him, Mrs Patmore!" Daisy cried, while a cheer rose up from the girl-guides. Jimmy, in his prone, winded position, attempted to locate some incredulity – but that had apparently been knocked out of him when he'd hit the floor.

"Now," she said, sounding no less indignant, but slightly calmer, "_Daisy_, don't just stand there wringing your hands, girl – try and coax Ivy out of the bathroom."

Daisy scurried past, and a small girl-guide sauntered up. She stared at Jimmy and Alfred with cheeky curiosity, before informing Mrs Patmore, "I've got my first-aid badge. D'you want me to assess the casualties?"

"Oh, I don't think there's any need for that," Mrs Patmore said. She stooped down (Alfred yelping as this caused him to contort into even more improbable positions), and grasped Jimmy's arm roughly with her free hand, hauling him to his feet. Grimly, she said, "I don't think we'll be 'assessing the casualties' until _after _we've paid a visit to Mr Carson."


	12. Chapter 12

FINALLY! I can't tell you how happy I am to have made it to this point!

* * *

"_Brawling_ in the café?" Mr Carson thundered. "I am _speechless._"

_If only,_ Jimmy thought, _that were true._

He slumped in the chair by Mr Carson's desk, while Alfred sat off to the side, head down and hands between his knees. At the back of the room, Ivy keened, while Mrs Hughes patted her shoulder and made vague comforting sounds – and all the while, the Mr Carson's displeased words fell ceaselessly, like neverending, censorious rain.

" – cannot _believe _that you would engage in such juvenile behaviour" –

" – thoughtless and irresponsible" –

" – a stain not only upon your individual characters, but upon _Downton itself_" –

Jimmy hunched his shoulders and waited for Mr Carson to go hoarse, or for death to take them all. Right now, it was by no means certain which event would precede the other.

" – cannot imagine what you were thinking, Alfred!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Carson," Alfred mumbled. "I don't know what came over me."

"As for you_, _James, well, I'm not sure I _want_ to know what _you_ were thinking."

Jimmy touched the bump above his ear and said nothing. Typical. Bounced off the floor, and Mr Carson still had more sympathy for the person who'd tried to turn him into a basketball, than he did for _Jimmy, _the basketball in question.

"Ivy – as you appear to have played only a minor role in this – _fiasco– _I suggest that you gather yourself, and go down to the cottage. The Ripon girl guide troupe is waiting for you."

Ivy stared at Mr Carson. Her mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was a kind of devastated squeak, as her chest heaved and twin tears rolled down her cheeks. Jimmy had to look away, something in his stomach turning uneasily.

"Mr Carson!" Mrs Hughes sounded scandalized. "You are surely _not _suggesting that Ivy perform a demonstration in _this _state?"

Jimmy wouldn't have believed it, but for a brief moment, Mr Carson looked abashed, before he rallied, drawing himself up to his full height. "Mrs Hughes, there are twenty four girl guides waiting in traditional cottage number two, expecting to be shown how to make their own butter. I agree, the circumstances," he cast a glance at Ivy's red, damp face, " – are less than ideal, but" –

"But nothing," Mrs Hughes said firmly. "Ivy is in no condition to deal with a tour group right now."

It was Mr Carson's turn to sound scandalized. "But the Ripon girl guides" –

" – have paid their money, and they will be taken care of," Mrs Hughes spoke over him, "Just not by _Ivy_."

Mrs Hughes urged Ivy to her feet and turned her around, undoing Ivy's apron – before promptly tying it around her own waist.

Mr Carson's mouth was open. He shut it with a snap. "_You_ – are going to take on Ivy's duties?"

"Just for today," Mrs Hughes said, and raised her eyebrows. "Do you have any objections?"

"Well – I" – he cleared his throat, and Jimmy could see him visibly attempt to pull himself together. "That – sounds like a…reasonable compromise."

"Good. I'm glad you approve," Mrs Hughes said. It was quite clear that she was just humouring Mr Carson. "In that case, come along Ivy – you can clean yourself up in my office. I shall leave _you, _Mr Carson, to deal with – _everything else_."

Her eyes lit briefly on Jimmy and Alfred and Jimmy squirmed on his chair. He felt like he was ten years old. There was no way that this could get any worse.

But like clockwork, after Mrs Hughes and Ivy left, _Mr Barrow_ entered, and Jimmy was forced to revise his opinion. Mr Barrow took in the scene before his eyes, and probably remembering the last time he'd been called to Mr Carson's office, asked warily, "What's going on here, then?"

Jimmy stared fixedly at the floor, because immolation by _fireball_ would have been less painful than meeting Thomas Barrow's eyes just then.

"Ah, Thomas," Mr Carson said. "I am sorry to bother you, but a _situation_ has arisen…"

And Mr Carson apprised him of what had happened in the café, like Jimmy was Mr Barrow's _dog _that had been caught misbehaving, or something. Jimmy pressed his lips together, and waited for the humiliation to be over.

It did not look as if that would happen any time soon, because Mr Carson finished off his rendition of Jimmy's transgressions by saying, " – clear lapse in Downton's standards of courtesy and professionalism, and I _hope _that you will see fit to treat it with the gravity it deserves, Thomas."

"Absolutely, Mr Carson," Mr Barrow said smartly. "I am appalled and disgusted to hear of this sort of behaviour – and I can assure you, Jimmy and I will be having strong words about it."

Mr Barrow then turned to him. "James, if you'll wait in my office, I'll be there in a few minutes, when I've finished speaking with Mr Carson."

Mr Carson nodded in agreement. "Alfred – you are also dismissed" – Alfred hastily rose from his chair, " – _for the moment_. And James?"

Jimmy paused at the door.

"A little _restraint _might be in order, next time."

He felt the indignity of it keenly – to be banished to the office, awaiting a scolding on appropriate workforce interactions from _Thomas _bloody_ Barrow _of all people, who thought it was perfectly all right to go around touching tongues with his subordinates. Jimmy would have preferred it if Mr Carson had just smacked his nose with a newspaper and been done with it. It took everything he had to do as Mr Barrow had said, to get up, and walk to their office. And once there, he found his fingers clenching, nails digging into his palms as he waited.

When Mr Barrow appeared, ten minutes later, with a cup of coffee in one hand, Jimmy was in no mood to delay the inevitable. "Well?" he bit out. "Can we just get this over with?" The words weren't at all gracious.

"All right," Mr Barrow said, and waved him over to a seat. Jimmy thought about refusing to sit, but decided it would just prolong the agony. But instead of treating him to a variant on Mr Carson's monologue, Mr Barrow followed him over, placing his coffee on the table.

Then he half-knelt down in front of Jimmy –whose heart immediately speeded up. "What" – he began, voice pulling tight in his chest. "What're you doing?"

Mr Barrow didn't seem at all discomfited. "You banged your head – I'm checking you for concussion." One hand came up to brush through the hair above his ear, and even though Thomas Barrow's fingers brushed against the bump on his head, he wasn't sure that _that _was what caused him to flinch. Jimmy was relieved when, after a careful touch, he removed his hand from Jimmy's hair.

"Now follow my finger with your eyes – don't move your head."

Mr Barrow moved his index finger from side to side, up and down, and in a diagonal swoop in front of Jimmy's face, and Jimmy kept his head still, and followed the movement with his eyes. He tried to keep his attention focused entirely on Thomas Barrow's finger – but it was impossible for Jimmy not to be aware of the _intentness_ on Mr Barrow's face, and in every line of his body. It practically seeped from him, filling the air around them with a curious, intense quality. Jimmy's skin prickled with awareness. It was uncomfortable.

Finally, Mr Barrow rocked back on his heels slightly and said, "Well, you seem all right, as far as I can tell," his pale eyes met Jimmy and he continued, lightly, " – so you can forget any bright ideas you might have about suing us."

Privately, Jimmy thought that if Carson's extended monologue on his character failings hadn't caused him to lapse into a coma, or made him start vomiting blood, there was little danger of it now. "I wasn't planning on _suing," _he said.

Mr Barrow tsked. "And here I took you for an entrepreneurial spirit."

Jimmy waited, but Mr Barrow didn't say anything. It set his teeth on edge. "Well?" he demanded. "Aren't you going to say anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Like…" Jimmy waved his hand in a circle as he attempted to repeat some of Mr Carson's choicer phrases, "…like I'm a disgrace to Downton and how my behaviour sullies the spotless record of service that has existed since…I don't know…since Alfred's twisted old relative first put pen to paper."

"Thought you'd have had enough of that by now," Mr Barrow said, raising his eyebrows.

"I _have_," Jimmy said with feeling, "But you told Mr Carson you would – so if you're going to say something about it, do it _now. _Don't hold it over my head."

Mr Barrow studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. But just as Jimmy was bracing himself to prepare for a highly hypocritical lecture on _respect _for one's superiors, he said, evenly, "It'll blow over. There's ways of managing these things. Give it a few days, keep your head down – and it'll be old news soon enough."

Jimmy screwed up his face. This was…not how the talk in Mr Barrow's office was supposed to go. "_What_?"

"Take it from someone who knows – this is _nothing."_

"It doesn't _feel_ like nothing," Jimmy mumbled. He let his head drop down, studying the woodgrain of the desk – but again, even if he couldn't _see _Mr Barrow looking at him, he could feel the pressure of Mr Barrow's gaze.

Suddenly, the cup of coffee appeared in his line of vision. "Here."

He looked up blankly at Mr Barrow – _surprise_, that's what it was, surprise and confusion, because _this was not how the talk in Mr Barrow's office was supposed to go_…but evidently Mr Barrow thought he was making some kind of point, because he put the coffee cup down on the table with a careful, controlled force, and said, with an almost vicious kind of smoothness, "You don't have to worry – I've not spiked it with Rohypnol."

Then Mr Barrow was saying something about meeting Edna, and about not being back for the rest of the afternoon, and then the door was closing behind him before Jimmy could say anything. Not that he'd even _had_ anything to say.

He stared at the cup of coffee for a long moment, before closing his eyes and lowering his head onto his folded arms.

* * *

Unfortunately, it was not a relief to pack up and go home.

The thing was – Jimmy'd _expected _something like this…he'd clocked the whole Ivy-Alfred-Daisy situation as a mess right from day one. But he prided himself on staying out of these things, and he'd planned on watching the inevitable chaos from safely offside. Instead, here he was, at the unstable, pulsing _epicentre_ of the situation – and as if things weren't complicated enough, he'd somehow contrived to involve Mr Barrow in the mess too.

He didn't know _how _this had happened.

He didn't know how to go about _fixing _it.

When he made his wary way into the kitchen, Alfred was there. He straightened when he saw Jimmy, who made stood just inside the door, well out of reach, just in case.

"Hello," Alfred said, awkwardly.

"Hello," Jimmy took a few careful steps closer, since Alfred did not seem to be in immediate danger of another fit of murderous chivalry just then.

Alfred cleared his throat. "How's your," he waved one large hand, " – head?"

Jimmy resisted the urge to touch the bump above his ear, where he'd hit it against the chair back as he fell. He could still feel Mr Barrow's fingers combing through his hair, a spidery ghost touch. "S'alright," he said.

Alfred nodded, and bit his lip. "I didn't – in the café – I never meant to" – His arm drew larger and larger circles in the air.

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one," Jimmy said dryly. _"I_ never meant to in the café either." He winced. The situation with Ivy had not been improved by the addition of Mrs Patmore, Daisy, and two dozen girl-guides.

Alfred looked relieved.

"Where's Ivy?" Jimmy asked. The words came out reluctantly, but there was a kind of compulsion behind them that forced him to say them.

"In her room."

Jimmy nodded, but didn't move.

"An apology mightn't go amiss," Alfred advised him. He smiled a small crooked smile, "Mind you, it might not _work, _but…an apology is usually the best place to start."

Well, Alfred would _know, _wouldn't he?

"Right," Jimmy said. He turned, only to stop. Because Ivy was now standing in the doorway. Her eyes were puffy, though she wasn't crying anymore, and she was wearing the biggest jumper Jimmy had ever seen. It was pink, and it came down to her knees. The sleeves came down to her knuckles. She looked like she was being eaten alive by fleece.

Jimmy blinked. "Ivy," he said, and cleared his throat. "About – what happened. I just wanted to say" –

"I don't want to talk about that," Ivy said, in a high, tight voice.

"All right," he said, "But I just wanted to tell you I'm s" –

"Cupboards!" Ivy said suddenly, cutting him off.

He frowned. "What?"

"We've been sharing this house for months now – and we've never even decided who gets what cupboard. For our _food,_" she further clarified at Alfred's confused look.

"Well…we can do that, if you think it's important," Jimmy said carefully, looking at her like she was an unexploded bomb.

"Of _course _it's important," Ivy said. "All our food's mixed up at the moment – we don't know what belongs to who."

"Yeah, but…it's seemed to work out okay, so far," Alfred said.

"We're _flatmates, _not _friends,_" Ivy said. She held her chin high, and Jimmy felt one of those uncomfortable niggles of what might have been guilt. "And it's important to have rules in place."

He and Alfred exchanged looks. "All right," Jimmy said. "All right, we can" –

"I've already got it all marked out," Ivy said, and she pulled a sheet of paper out of one of her enormous sleeves. "_You_ can start organizing everyone's food into the right cupboards."

"What about Alfred?" Jimmy protested – it was instinctive. But Ivy fixed him with hard eyes and said, "_Alfred _will be in the sitting room – helping me work out the new shower schedule."

Alfred blushed. Ivy shoved the sheet of paper hard against Jimmy's chest with the flat of her hand, pushing him back a step or two.

"Right," Jimmy said, almost to himself, with a roll of his eyes, as Ivy led Alfred into the sitting room.

It turned out that Jimmy had been relegated to the corner cupboard, which was so tiny it could only hold cans if they were stacked on their sides. In addition, he had been granted the crisper drawer in the refrigerator. Jimmy didn't even try to make his food fit into the meagre space given him, heaping anything extra onto Alfred's shelves.

He was cross and tired when he'd finished, while Ivy and Alfred had apparently made quick work of the shower-schedule, given the noise from the television. Still, later that night, when he'd caught Ivy with her hand on her bedroom door, just about to turn the handle, he'd immediately taken the chance to say, "Look, I know you don't want to talk about it" – she stiffened, but he pressed forward before she had a chance to object, " – but I want you to know that I _am _sorry. All that – in the café…I never meant to say those things."

Ivy stared down at the door handle for a moment, before actually looking up at him. She'd had a challenging, defiant expression on her face all evening, but now, that was gone, and she looked sad and tired.

"No," she said. "I know you didn't. You just meant to _think_ them."

And she shut her door, very softly, in his face.

* * *

The shower schedule had not proved any more in Jimmy's favour than the cupboard-division, and he'd barely stepped under the spray before there was a pounding at the door telling him to get out.

Then, in the kitchen, it turned out that Alfred had used up all his eggs to make an enormous breakfast omelette, now eaten.

"They were on my shelf in the fridge," Alfred defended, before adding, "…and Ivy felt like eggs this morning."

But though these things added to Jimmy's discomfort, they were not the cause of it. No, the reason for Jimmy's discomfort was at Downton, on the other side of the door where Jimmy now stood, with a cup of coffee in one hand, the other clenching and unclenching at his side.

He'd been working himself up to this all night. _An apology is usually the best place to start, _Alfred had said.

Jimmy took a deep breath, and turned the handle.


	13. Chapter 13

Oh, I probably should've said in that earlier chapter that the 'only gay in the village' joke is a reference to Little Britain. Because...it is :)

* * *

Mr Barrow was at his desk, looking through some papers. When Jimmy came in, his eyes flicked up quickly, then back down to the papers. "Morning," he said.

It would have been easy to walk over to his chair and just begin work. But instead, Jimmy made himself take the very few steps to Mr Barrow's desk, until he was standing right beside Mr Barrow's chair. Then, carefully, he placed the coffee on the desk.

Mr Barrow looked at it, and then up at him.

"To say thank you," Jimmy explained. "For yesterday."

There was a moment of silence, and Jimmy fought the urge to fidget.

"You didn't have to," Mr Barrow said, finally.

It had kept him up all night. By rights, Jimmy's actions had entitled him to the telling off of a lifetime. _Mr Carson _himself had just about handed Mr Barrow an engraved invitation to rip Jimmy to pieces. And all Jimmy could have done in the circumstances was turn his back and let Mr Barrow twist the knife.

He hadn't given Mr Barrow any reason _not_ to. It would have been understandable if he'd pressed his advantage and made Jimmy suffer. More understandable than what he'd actually done, if Jimmy was honest. _That _had left him restless and shifting in his bed in the early hours of the morning, trying to puzzle out _why. _"Yes, I did. That was – it was kind of you. And – I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I…didn't appreciate it."

Another silence, before Mr Barrow reached out, and deliberately wrapped his hand around the coffee. "Well, if you insist."

It made things easier, Jimmy found, that Mr Barrow was seated while he remained standing. It somehow gave him the courage to say, "And – I was thinking, that we could – I mean, if you want" –

Maybe it wasn't so easy after all, in spite of the height difference – Mr Barrow was still _looking _at him, and that made him lose some of his composure, but he plunged on, determined, "We could – call a truce."

"A truce," Mr Barrow repeated.

"If you want," Jimmy said again. It was the hardest thing – to just stand there, offering something that he wasn't sure would be accepted. It made him feel horribly exposed, and he wanted to snatch the offer back…but very clearly in his mind's eye, he saw Thomas Barrow's hand pushing that cup of coffee across the table to him, and he forced himself to stay quiet. And wait.

Something flashed in Mr Barrow's eyes, too quickly for Jimmy to read, and he said, eventually, in a very _careful _kind of voice, "I suppose I wouldn't mind a ceasefire."

Jimmy couldn't help the smile that broke out across his face, or the relief in his voice as he said, "Good. Good."

"Friends, then?" Mr Barrow said, casual air too deliberate to be entirely believable. He held out his hand.

Suddenly, and just as clearly as Jimmy had seen Mr Barrow pushing the coffee across the table, he was struck by the image of Mr Barrow's intent face, and the remembered sensation of his fingers brushing through Jimmy's hair.

He hesitated. "Only," he said – and Mr Barrow's fingers quickly curled in toward his palm, like he regretted his gesture, and that made Jimmy's stomach twist, because it wasn't that he didn't _want _to say yes – it was just…if he was going to do this, and do it _properly _this time, then he needed to be completely upfront with Mr Barrow.

"Only," he said, "if you understand that – I can never give you what you want."

"I _know _that. And I'm not – I'm not _asking _for it." Mr Barrow blew out an exasperated breath. "Jimmy – although you are lovely to look at, and no doubt delightful to hold, it might surprise you to find that you are _not_ in fact, the only option" –

"I'm not an option _at all_!" Jimmy emphasized.

"It was a _mistake." _He ran a hand through his hair. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"All _right_," Jimmy said. "I believe you. It's just…what Ivy said…"

Mr Barrow looked at him.

"You know," Jimmy raised his eyebrows, but when Mr Barrow continued to look at him, "Only gay in the village. She said. So I thought – I should be clear."

Mr Barrow nodded consideringly. "I'd forgotten about that. And after they did that scientific survey to prove it and everything." Very slowly, as if Jimmy were a small, not particularly bright child, he said, "That was a _joke._"

"Oh," Jimmy said, suddenly _feeling _like a small, not particularly bright child.

"Mind you," Mr Barrow said, mouth twitching. "I suppose I might be the only one worth mentioning." He sounded conciliatory. "Unless you count Hugh and Leonard. But they've been together for fifteen years – and they have _cats. _So I don't."

"Oh," Jimmy said again, then rallied. "Well…how was _I_ to know? You _could've _been the only one, considering how bad you were at it."

Mr Barrow stared at him. "You thought I was bad at being…gay?"

"At _flirting_. You were bloody rubbish," Jimmy clarified. "Half the time I thought you were _damaged._"

"Well I was starting to think _you_ were simple," Thomas retorted. In a lower voice he added, "And just in case you hadn't noticed, I wasn't getting the best advice at the time."

"You weren't the only one."

"No," Mr Barrow agreed. "I suppose not."

"It wasn't you," Jimmy said suddenly. "Not – much. It was…everyone was _talking_, and I thought that _this,"_ he made an awkward gesture, "…I thought one thing but then I found out everyone else thought something different."

To be honest, Jimmy wasn't certain that what he'd just blurted out was true. Or at least – it had _elements _of the truth, it wasn't in any way a _lie…_it just wasn't the whole story. Because he _had_ been – disturbed by Mr Barrow, in some way. Was _still _disturbed by Mr Barrow. And not exactly in a pat, homophobic way, not _really. _More like – like what had happened between them, what Mr Barrow had _made _happen, was _significant. _Like a car-crash, or a broken bone, or a death – something pivotal that Jimmy needed to come to terms with.

He wasn't sure he was entirely _ready _to move on from it – but he also knew that if he didn't make amends, he'd be losing some kind of _chance. _And it was a chance he had a feeling he wouldn't get again.

"You know," Mr Barrow said. He wasn't looking at Jimmy, just staring down at his desk, and his voice was low enough that Jimmy had to strain to hear him. "Y'know, this didn't exactly work out like _I'd_ planned, either." He did look at Jimmy then. "Coming back here, being in charge – I was going to _show _them all, this time. Wasn't going to give anyone anything they could hold over me." He shook his head. "Only I ended up doin' exactly what everyone expected me to, instead. Like usual."

His mouth pulled upwards in an expression of supreme self-deprecation, but it made Jimmy's stomach twist again. He cleared his throat, and said, as lightly as he could, "Well – it could be worse," he said.

Mr Barrow raised his eyebrows and said, simply, "How?"

Jimmy shrugged. "It could be _Alfred _in here with you."

Mr Barrow was startled into laughter, and Jimmy couldn't stop himself from grinning back. He felt that familiar flicker of gratification at being able to provoke genuine amusement in Mr Barrow – followed just as quickly by unease that he should feel so pleased, still, at being able to affect the man. But this time, he took a breath and allowed the satisfaction to stay, and tried to stamp out the unease.

Mr Barrow was examining his face narrowly. Slowly, and without taking his eyes away from Jimmy's, he repeated, "Friends?" and put his hand out once more.

This time, Jimmy took it.

"Friends," he repeated.


	14. Chapter 14

To Jimmy's surprise, being friends with Thomas Barrow was much easier than _not _being friends with Thomas Barrow.

Mind you, _easier _was not quite the same thing as _easy. _But the fact remained, Mr Barrow was much better to have as a friend than he was an enemy. Maybe it was because Mr Barrow's heart had never seemed to be truly _in_ the whole enmity business (at least, not where Jimmy was concerned – he appeared to have no problems holding grudges toward any number of other people), so Jimmy had had to – loathe enough for two, as it were. It had been quite tiring, and seemed vaguely ridiculous to Jimmy in retrospect.

That said, it would be a lie to say that his misgivings had vanished – instead they sort of…lurked around at the back of his mind. But there were also _compensations_ to his friendship with Mr Barrow, and they were myriad enough that they served to drown out the misgivings – at least, most of the time.

Mr Barrow was _interesting. _And clever. And sardonically amusing. And placing oneself unequivocally on his side sometimes resulted in deeply satisfying situations such as _– _

Outside the office, Jimmy stood in front of the door and barred the way.

Mr Carson huffed. " – just need to speak with Thomas for a moment."

"I understand that, Mr Carson, but Mr Barrow _is_ very busy right now."

"While I do appreciate that, I assure you this will not take long, James." Mr Carson appeared to be speaking through gritted teeth.

"In that case, can I ask what it is you wish to discuss with Mr Barrow?" Jimmy asked. He pasted his best 'helpful' look onto his face.

Mr Carson drew himself up. "You may _ask, _James. That does not mean that I will see fit to indulge your curiosity."

"Well, without a clear idea as to the nature of your inquiry, the best I can do is inform Mr Barrow that you wish to speak to him," Jimmy said, regretfully. "He may be able to pencil you in to his schedule at some point."

"_Pencil_ _me in to his"_ – Mr Carson stopped. It appeared to cost him some effort, given the look on his face and how hard he had to press his lips together. "If you_ would, _James_."_

"Of course – it's no trouble, Mr Carson," Jimmy said.

Mr Carson spun on his heel and marched away. Just a few seconds later, Mr Barrow emerged from the office, closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall next to Jimmy. His arms were folded across his chest as he watched Mr Carson's ramrod stiff back disappear from sight. "What did _he_ want then?" he asked Jimmy.

Jimmy shrugged. "He wouldn't tell me – but he was very anxious to see you."

"Well, I'm sure it was important. Mr Carson's not the sort to bother if it wasn't," Mr Barrow mused. "I should probably meet with him, get whatever it is straightened out as soon as possible." He turned to Jimmy. "You can let him know I have a ten minute window in two days time. I'll see him then."

His lips just barely curled upwards. Jimmy's did the same as he murmured, "Just as you say, Mr Barrow."

* * *

Of course, sometimes the situations arising from his and Mr Barrow's entente were not quite so agreeable. Since the morning of the apology, he'd made it a habit to fetch a cup of coffee for Mr Barrow in the mornings. It was not an entirely _comfortable _custom – indeed, every morning he had to make the conscious decision to do so. Whenever he approached the café counter, a kind of anxiety held him in its pincer grip – _what this looked like, what people might say – _but he forced himself to shake it off, to do it anyway.

_Friends, _Mr Barrow had said, and he'd agreed. As gestures went, this was a small one.

Of course, it didn't feel like such a small gesture the morning he'd found Mr Barrow talking with Miss O' Brien. They'd kept a wary, respectful distance since the accusations in Mr Carson's office, as if both of them were nursing wounds, and it had been a surprise to see them speaking together. Jimmy's hand had tightened on the cup of coffee and he'd had an instinctive urge to turn away, to _not get caught. _

But almost simultaneously, he'd found himself straightening and making his way toward them. He wasn't going to fall at the first hurdle.

"Excuse me, Mr Barrow," he'd said, and passed him the coffee. He'd felt very aware of Miss O' Brien's sharp eyes as he did it.

"Thank you, Jimmy," Mr Barrow had said, smiling, but in a perfectly professional sort of way that eased some of the tension inside Jimmy. That didn't stop Miss O' Brien from commenting, as he walked off, "I'm glad to see you two have patched up your differences. Still in the honeymoon stage, I take it?"

Jimmy had stiffened, even as he'd continued to move away, but Mr Barrow had said immediately, smoothly, "I wouldn't expect _you_ to recognize a good working relationship when you see one."

And awkward and unpleasant as the incident had been, Jimmy had the feeling that this thing with Mr Barrow was all going to turn out all right.

* * *

Not to mention, and maybe most importantly of all, being friends with Mr Barrow provided a welcome respite from the unpleasantness at the house.

Two days after the Draconian cupboard division and shower schedule, Ivy had marched up to him with yet another sheet of paper. "What's this?" he asked.

"A cleaning rota," she said.

He frowned. "Do we _need _a cleaning rota? We've never had one before."

"We didn't have one, because _I _was the only one doing any cleaning. And I'm sick of it. Do I look like a maid of all work to you?"

Wisely, Jimmy tried another tack. "All right, but – why is _my_ name the only one _on_ the rota?"

"I've _told _you – I've already done enough cleaning to last me a lifetime."

"Yeah, but Alfred" –

"Alfred's got enough to do, without putting more work on him."

"And I _don't_?"

"Seems to me like you've got plenty of time to just stand around and complain," Ivy said. "Now why don't you make a start by washing all the floors? This place isn't going to clean _itself_, you know."

The shower schedule continued to be wildly imbalanced and deeply unfair. Ivy drew long, luxurious baths that left the bathroom steamy and smelling like a powder puff for hours afterwards. Jimmy was lucky if he had time to wash the shampoo out of his hair. The unjust distribution of cupboard space also continued apace, and Jimmy found that anything he couldn't wedge into the crisper drawer or the corner cupboard swiftly disappeared.

"Well, if you _will _put things on other people's shelves," Ivy said, taking a big bite of toasted sandwich made with the last of the bread and cheese Jimmy had bought. Ivy's strict wheat and dairy free diet had long ago been completely subsumed by the needs of spite.

"I couldn't _fit them _on my shelves," Jimmy bit out.

Ivy shrugged. "I suppose you'll have to start downsizing your shopping then."

"I didn't even put anything on _your_ shelves – it was all in _Alfred's_ cupboard."

Ivy looked at him, then took another, deliberate bite of toasted sandwich. "Well, Alfred and I are _friends. _We share everything."

"Not _everything,_" Alfred muttered from his place at the table, too low for Ivy to hear, but he scrunched his face apologetically in Jimmy's direction.

Not that that made any difference, ultimately. Alfred might claim to be Switzerland in this one-sided war, but when it came to Ivy, he was far from neutral.

"You can't exactly _blame _her though, can you?" he said to Jimmy afterwards.

"I said I was sorry, and I've done everything she's asked," Jimmy pointed out testily. Not that Ivy had ever really _asked. _More like, flung sheets of paper at him and _demanded. _"I'm storing bread by the _slice _now. My feet don't even get wet when I shower. Last night she had me steam-cleaning the bedroom carpets…and we don't even _have _a steam cleaner. What else does she _want?_"

"It's just, with the wedding and everything" - Alfred stopped at the look on Jimmy's face, "You know – the _wedding."_

Jimmy shook his head. Alfred's lips thinned into a judgmental line. "She's been talking about it for _months_, wondering who she could ask. And then when _you_" –

"I _know _what I did, you don't have to remind me," Jimmy said crossly.

" – all I'm saying is, if it makes her feel better to have you mop a few floors, or eat some of your food, well" – Alfred's tone drifted into unpleasant sanctimony, "–it's a pretty small price to pay, considering." He paused. "By the way, it's your turn to clean the kitchen."

* * *

So, really, it was good to have at least one person who was unequivocally on his side. Well, as unequivocally as Mr Barrow ever was, which mainly meant a lot of snide witticisms at everyone's expense.

Still, it was nice to have someone to complain to. Most of the time, at least.

"What's the matter with you, then?" Mr Barrow asked, taking the coffee Jimmy held out.

"What d'you think? I was down on my knees all last night," Jimmy snapped as he gingerly took his seat. Of course, it took him saying the words out loud to realize how they _sounded_. A wave of irritated heat rose to his cheeks.

Mr Barrow held his sip of coffee in his mouth far longer than he should have. "Oh?" he said, after he'd finally swallowed. He managed to sound only a few degrees away from disinterested.

There was something stuck in Jimmy's throat and he had to clear it. "Ivy had me waxing the floors." The mortification was intense, almost like a heartbeat vibrating through the entire room. They both tried to ignore it.

"Well," Mr Barrow said, and the way he could _almost _feign casualness somehow only served to draw more attention to the awkwardness of the moment, "You'd best be careful. Don't want to come down with a case of housemaid's knee."

It passed of course, the way all moments, even especially awkward ones, did. And it was good, really, to have called a truce with Mr Barrow, because the benefits far outweighed the drawbacks.

It was probably churlish to wish that those drawbacks didn't exist at all. But Jimmy couldn't help it – it just felt like they kept getting in the _way. _Though, in the way of _what_, exactly, he couldn't say.

* * *

It turned out that Alfred's great business opportunity, the one he'd half-mentioned on the night they all studiously avoided mentioning, was – "Jams and preserves. Maybe some expansion into chutneys, if the market demands it."

"_What_?" Jimmy said.

"Mr Barrow thinks we should start selling our own range of jams and preserves in the gift shop. _A little taste of Downton_, he said. A select, exclusive, handmade line…and he chose me to front it!"

"Why wouldn't he? You _look _handmade," Jimmy said.

Alfred scowled at him – quite a difficult thing, given the faintness of his eyebrows (ironically, one of the very things that gave him such an unfinished, homemade air).

What this meant was evening upon evening of Alfred crouching over bubbling saucepans, like a culinary version of Frankenstein's monster, muttering things like, "Plum or rhubarb?" and " – I like the zing of lemon…but it just might overwhelm the dash of vanilla…"

"It's not bloody rocket science," Mr Barrow said, when Jimmy shared this with him during one of his smoke breaks.

"_A taste of Downton, _you said," Jimmy reminded him. "He wants it to be authentic."

"He'd better hurry up then, before I buy a supermarket brand and slap some new labels on it," Mr Barrow said. He blew a plume of light grey smoke that the slight breeze carried away. It was nice to get out of the office, sometimes, Jimmy thought.

It all culminated in an evening during which Daisy appeared at their front door carrying a cardboard box filled with extra saucepans and sterilized jam jars.

"Are you sure you don't mind helping?" Alfred asked. "I mean, I _have _narrowed it down already – I started off with twenty one possibilities, but I'm down to fifteen. But I'd really appreciate a second opinion."

"Of course I don't mind! It's exciting, isn't it. _Alfred Nugent's Jams and Preserves…_" Daisy said, with a sort of wistful dreaminess Jimmy suspected no other girl had ever felt while uttering the words _jams, preserves, _or, come to think of it, _Alfred Nugent._

"Well, just make sure he doesn't stick a self-portrait on the jars – otherwise we'll never shift them," Jimmy said. It came out slightly echoey. On the cleaning schedule for that evening was 'defrost freezer.'

Alfred and Daisy ignored him, and a long, painfully dull conversation about complementary flavours ensued, while Jimmy chipped away at the thick layer of ice that had formed on the bottom inside of the freezer.

" – mm, I like that, but I wonder – Mrs Patmore always says" –

" – strawberry is a classic, of course…but would blackberry be the bolder, more _individual_ choice?"

It wasn't until Jimmy had put everything back into the freezer that he became aware that there was possibly more simmering in the kitchen than five varieties of jam. Though in his defense, most people – _sane_ people – didn't find copious amounts of pectin an aphrodisiac.

But when he'd finally shut the freezer door, left arm aching and small particles of ice still in his hair, it was just in time to hear Daisy say, " – can't see a way round it – unless you want to use tomatoes, or something."

To which Alfred responded by abruptly seizing hold of her upper arms. "_Tomatoes_! That's – that's perfect! They'll cut the sweetness without sacrificing the juiciness! Daisy – you're a _genius_!"

Jimmy watched with disbelieving eyes as Alfred half-hugged, half-spun her around the kitchen, and when he finally released her, Daisy staggered backwards, hands gripping the table for support, a look of breathless delight on her face.

Alfred stared at her. "Daisy…" he said, then stopped.

Daisy swallowed. "Alfred, I" –

The smell of sugar and fruit was thick in the air, and the only sound was of Alfred and Daisy's quick breathing. Jimmy began to back slowly towards the door – because he might never recover if he had to see Alfred in the throes of passion.

But just then, a thumping sound on the stairs made Alfred whip his head away. A second later, and Ivy popped into the kitchen. She was wearing a thin, spangly top over dark leggings. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was lightly tousled and curled.

"Hullo – how's the jam doing?" she asked brightly, looking between Alfred and Daisy.

"Good," Alfred said. "Good – um, fine. What," he cleared his throat. "You look nice. Where are you going?"

"Out. With _Peter._" She actually turned and spoke the name right into Jimmy's face, like it was a missile of some kind. Jimmy carefully took a step back.

Alfred, on the other hand, took a step toward her. "_Peter_?" he said in consternation. "Who's _Peter_?"

Ivy shrugged. "He's a history teacher in Ripon Grammar School – I met him yesterday during a demonstration, and he asked me out afterwards. He seemed like a _gentleman, _and they're so hard to meet those these days"- another glance in Jimmy's direction "–so I said yes."

She smiled. "Happy jam-making – and don't wait up! Oh, and Daisy, don't worry about cleaning those pots and pans. _Jimmy'll_ do that."

"What" -

She thumped Jimmy once, hard on the shoulder, then disappeared just as he was opening his mouth once more to object. Alfred stared after her like a lovesick Great Dane.

"So," Daisy cleared her throat hopefully. "D'you really think that tomatoes" –

"Sorry, Daisy, I'm – really tired. I think I'm just going to go to bed now," Alfred said. He barely glanced in her direction. "Jimmy'll help you pack up."

"_Jimmy'll help you pack up?" _Jimmy repeated in disbelief.

"Cheers, mate," Alfred said absently. He patted Jimmy in the exact same place Ivy had thumped, as he wandered out of the kitchen.

Jimmy folded his arms. He might currently be Ivy's pack horse, due to past, unpleasant circumstances, but there was no way on Earth that he was doing Alfred's dirty work for him.

"_Well?_" Daisy suddenly addressed him, so sharply it made him jump. "Come on – don't just stand about like that! Get to it!"

She swept out of the kitchen and banged the door behind her.

Really, Thomas Barrow was a bloody picnic compared to everyone _else _in Jimmy's life.


	15. Chapter 15

The worst part, Jimmy thought, was the _repetitiveness _of the whole situation. Because he spent so much time with Ivy, Alfred and Daisy, he not only got to _see _first-hand the mess everyone was making of their lives – he got to _hear _about it afterwards, as well.

At breakfast (microwaveable popcorn – the packages were among the few things small enough to actually fit into the corner cupboard) the next morning, he was treated to a play by play of Ivy's date, in excruciatingly dull detail. _Ivy herself_ yawned in the middle of describing the restaurant Peter had brought her to – " – and apple pie for dessert. He says he always orders the same thing every time he goes there – it's like a ritual."

Then, as soon as she left the kitchen to put on her makeup, Alfred slid onto the seat next to Jimmy and bored him with his concerns about Ivy.

" – not sure he's right for her. Ivy's been taken advantage of before…well, _you _know, obviously – and now this bloke appears out of nowhere? I don't like it. What do we even _know _about him?"

"Too bloody much, as far as I'm concerned," Jimmy muttered.

Absently, Alfred stole a piece of too-chewy popcorn. "He didn't even take her to a very good restaurant."

Then, at the café, as Jimmy queued for his and Mr Barrow's coffees, Daisy had another take on the events of the previous night.

" – should've seen the way Alfred was looking at me."

"Oh, I'm sure," Mrs Patmore said, seasoning her words with a healthy dose of skepticism.

"No, _really, _he was! Jimmy was there – he saw it…didn't you, Jimmy?"

"Oh, well, if _Jimmy _saw it – then I suppose I shall have to bow to his take on the situation. An expert at reading the signals, that one."

Jimmy glowered at her, and waited, with considerably less patience, for the coffees to be handed over.

"I'm going to ask him," Daisy said suddenly. "I am! I mean – it's not like it's the middle ages. _I_ can ask _him_. There's no laws against it."

"No, there's no law against making a fool of yourself," Mrs Patmore said agreeably.

Coffees in her hands and on the verge of finally giving them to Jimmy, Daisy stiffened as the café door swung open, and then hurried out from the counter as a familiar, ginger-topped countenance made its appearance.

"Oy!" Jimmy said, chasing after her. "Could I just take those" –

Daisy was impervious however, clutching both cups and staring up at Alfred like a doting squirrel gazing upon a sequoia.

"Hullo, Daisy," Alfred said.

Daisy squared her shoulders. "Alfred," she said. "There's something I want to ask you."

In spite of himself, Jimmy found himself rooted to the spot. Even Mrs Patmore, for all her professed unconcern, bent as far as she could across the counter to get a better look.

"Alfred – I…" Daisy licked her lips. "That is…I was wondering if…if you" – the expression on her face slid from determination to alarm, and she squeaked, " – if you wanted…a sandwich!"

"Well…if you're offering," Alfred said.

Mrs Patmore leaned back with a sigh and a shake of her head. "I swear, you lot would drive a _saint _to drink. And I am many things, but saint is not one of them."

Jimmy rolled his eyes before pulling the coffees from Daisy's hands.

"Scintillating_,_" Mr Barrow said later, with an eloquent arch of his eyebrow.

"You were the one asking why your coffee was late," Jimmy defended. In spite of Mr Barrow's lofty attitude, Jimmy thought he quite liked hearing the gossip – he just wasn't a proponent of the 'if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all,' school of thought. Which was all right by Jimmy, as he'd never attended that particular institution himself.

"Well in future, feel free to notify me whenever something _interesting _happens," Mr Barrow said, then paused. "Actually, considering who we're talking about, better not get _too_ ambitious. Change that to 'when _anything_ happens.'"

Jimmy snorted. "On that far off day," he said.

"Might come quicker than you think," Mr Barrow said. "One of 'em'll have to say something eventually."

"Yeah well, going by Daisy's performance this morning, it's not going to be anytime soon."

Mr Barrow shrugged. "S'just the way people are wired – if you want something badly enough, in the end, you'll reach out for it. It's not like you can stay in the trenches forever – someone's always going to take that first step onto no man's land and hope for the best."

_Well, if anyone would know_…Jimmy thought, memories of the night Thomas Barrow had _reached out _bubbling to the surface of his mind_. _ Mr Barrow tossed his opinion off with casual assurance, and without any special significance, so that night probably wasn't uppermost in _his_ mind. Still, for some reason, his words sent a shiver of something like unease down Jimmy's spine.

_Probably because no man's land was preferable to a warzone_, Jimmy thought, and Jimmy'd always done his level best to keep a careful distance from messy, emotional disaster areas. That had to be it.

"Well, I don't think there's anything to worry about just yet," he said.

"You never know – you might have the next Anna and Mr Bates on your hands. Could turn out to be true love." Mr Barrow said it with the same glibness with which he said almost everything – but for some reason his mouth twisted into a discontented line and he fell silent.

Jimmy didn't know what had cast a pall over Mr Barrow's mood. He searched for the right response. "The next Anna and Mr Bates? No wonder I've lost my appetite," he said finally, and felt vindicated when Mr Barrow's lips turned up in amusement again.

But outside of the office, and rather irritatingly, it looked as if Mr Barrow had a point, because even though Ivy, Alfred and Daisy kept carefully dancing around no man's land, it was in ever decreasing circles.

First of all, during lunch in the café, in the middle of a long treatise about shorter versus longer bridal dresses (and really, it was amazing Jimmy'd managed to block out this wedding for so long, because Ivy was constantly going on about it), Alfred said, "Are you asking Peter to the wedding, then?"

"Of course I am," Ivy said.

Alfred took a deep breath and said, "Well, I don't think you should."

Both Jimmy and Ivy stared at him. "What? _Why_?" Ivy said.

Alfred stared at her for a long moment, resolution hardening on his face. Jimmy could almost hear the sniper fire of _change _in the distance. "If you must know, I don't think you should ask him because – because _I_" – the resolute expression began to wobble like jelly, "…don't think you've known him long enough."

Ivy crossed her arms. "Well, I'm _not _playing gooseberry to Maria and her husband again. I'm _not. _So unless you've got someone else in mind to take me" –

"_I_ co" –

" – though I can't think of a single person who'd do. Can you?"

Alfred stared down at the table. "Suppose not," he said.

Secondly, there was what happened the next day at Alfred's jam presentation. After finally settling on seven types of jam, Alfred had decided that it was time to meet with Mr Barrow to push the project forward.

"I don't know if you need the _suit,_" Jimmy said, casting an unimpressed eye at him over the breakfast table.

"It's important," Alfred told him, earnestly, as he tried to avoid getting butter on his cuffs. "I want to make a good impression."

Jimmy did not know how much of an impression Alfred would make in the ten minutes Mr Barrow had allotted him in his schedule, but Alfred, evidently, had plans.

And those plans involved Daisy, because the first thing he did was stop by the café.

"You look smart," Daisy said, smiling at him.

"Thanks. I hope you're not just saying that," Alfred said.

"Oh no, I" –

"_Coffee?_" Jimmy reminded her.

Daisy cast a chagrined glance in his direction, but began filling two cups.

"Actually, Daisy…there's something I want to ask you," Alfred said. "It's something I've been thinking about a lot lately, especially after spending so much time together lately, and…well…it just – feels right to me."

She turned around, two steaming cups in her hands, but made no move to place them on the counter. Jimmy wondered if he would ever get served in a timely fashion again.

"What is it?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Daisy," Alfred stopped. "Will you" –

"Yes!"

" – be my business partner?"

Daisy blinked. "What?"

"What?" Alfred squinted down at her.

"Oh for" – Mrs Patmore exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

Daisy swallowed. Cleared her throat, as she took in Alfred's words. "How much would I be earning?"

The jam saga did not end there, however, as, not content to be a silent partner in _Nugent and Mason's Jams and Preserves, _Daisy insisted on attending the meeting with Mr Barrow.

In fact, as it turned out, the only one not heavily invested in said meeting, was Mr Barrow himself. Who looked up, blankly as Alfred towered over him, holding a tray with seven kinds of jam on it and said, "Oh, right."

He cast a glance at the assorted jars and said, "Good – well…make a few batches and pass them on to Anna. She'll put them up in the shop, and we'll see how they sell."

"Is that it?" Daisy asked.

"What else d'you want?" Mr Barrow asked.

"We were going to do a demonstration and everything."

Mr Barrow stared at her. "A demonstration? I know how jam _works."_

In the corner, Jimmy leaned against the wall and enjoyed the show.

"We've narrowed it down to seven candidates – all worthy in their own way," Alfred said, finally placing the tray down on the desk. Mr Barrow stared at it with a nonplussed air. "But – obviously, we want to cut them down to five, at the very most."

"Then toss a few of them out," Mr Barrow said, sounding exasperated.

"But" – Alfred began.

"Look," Mr Barrow said, "I asked for jam – and you gave me jam. That's me satisfied, and I don't have time for…whatever this is," he said, indicating the tray. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to Mr C" –

"_No_," Daisy said, and abruptly sat down on Jimmy's chair, arms crossed.

They all looked at her. "What are you doing?" Jimmy asked.

"It's not fair," she said to Mr Barrow. "We put our blood, sweat and _souls_ into those jams, and I'm not moving until you taste each and every one."

"Just some advice, but I wouldn't try to market them with that slogan," Mr Barrow informed her dryly, but his expression changed to poorly concealed petulance as she continued to glare at him, unmoving. "Oh all _right_ – pass us a spoon."

Jimmy smothered a grin at this turn of events – mind already idly turning over mocking comments that he might make later that day, when he and Mr Barrow were alone. Alfred unleashed a blinding smile at Daisy before handing Mr Barrow a teaspoon and saying, "All right, well, the first jar is a classic – strawberry…but with a twist" –

The jam-tasting went on far longer than anything called 'jam tasting' should, with Alfred coaxing Mr Barrow into developing his palate by attempting to describe the flavours in each jar –

"_Jam_," Mr Barrow replied, each and every time, voice increasingly flat with each repetition. "It tastes like _jam._"

Not that this dissuaded Alfred, who detailed every ingredient and how it contributed to the overall texture and taste.

By the end, as Alfred fretted over whether to eliminate jar number four or jar number seven from the line-up ("I know four's _traditional, _and it's the safer bet…but there's just something about the blackberry…"), in exasperation Mr Barrow just stuck his right index finger into jar number four, pulled it out, covered in jam, and slid it into his mouth.

"Number four – what a surprise! - tastes like jam," he said, after he'd licked his finger clean.

Jimmy's stomach twisted.

It sounded stupid, but Mr Barrow was so…fastidious, usually, that the action almost seemed – indecent. Jimmy felt as if he should look away, as Mr Barrow dipped his second and third fingers into the other jar, and pulled them out, coated in dark sweet jam, and raised them to his mouth.

But there was something _fascinating _in it too, that familiar thrill that came with seeing something he shouldn't, and he kept his eyes fixed on Mr Barrow's lips, curved around his fingers, before he licked the jam off.

This time, the action was more deliberate, and he really seemed to be considering the taste as he slid his fingers slowly free. He pressed his lips together, and Jimmy let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It was ridiculous – just because something _felt _indecent, didn't mean it _was. _It just…contrasted with how Mr Barrow usually appeared, and that threw Jimmy off balance.

"I like that one," Mr Barrow said, tapping the lip of the jar with his index finger. "Keep it."

"Yes, Mr Barrow," Alfred said. Neither he nor Daisy seemed at all affected by Mr Barrow's lapse of decorum, but then, they didn't know him as well as Jimmy did.

When they had finally filed out of the office, Mr Barrow looked at him and rolled his eyes. "Coffee?" he said, and Jimmy remembered the cups he'd fetched from the café earlier. He picked Mr Barrow's one from its resting place on his table, and made a face. "S'probably cold by now," he said.

"I don't care," Mr Barrow told him with some feeling, as he came closer. He reached out with his right hand, fingers outstretched – the same fingers he had just had in his mouth.

Jimmy's stomach gave another one of those funny jumps. Their hands didn't brush as he passed Mr Barrow the coffee cup.

It was perhaps no surprise that, emboldened by the success of _Nugent and Mason's Jams and Preserves_ opening gambit, Daisy would be the first to take an uncertain but definite step onto unmarked territory.

"You were brilliant," Alfred told her, as she wiped down their table at lunchtime. Alfred didn't even seem to have missed Ivy, who was running late. All his attention was focused on Daisy, who blushed. "Oh go on."

"No, I _mean_ it," Alfred said. "Without you, Mr Barrow wouldn't even have given those jams a second look, not to mind an actual _taste_."

A sudden image of Mr Barrow, licking jam from his fingers flashed through Jimmy's mind, and he shifted on his seat.

Daisy looked at Alfred for a moment, before suddenly, she dropped her cloth and slid onto the chair next to him. "Alfred," she said, hands very still on the table, "D'you…would you like to do something with me this weekend? _Together_," she stressed.

"All right, yeah," Alfred said. "Sounds good."

Daisy stared at him, mouth falling open. "You mean it?"

Alfred shrugged, "Yeah – why not?"

Daisy had a peculiarly gormless look of delight on her face, while Jimmy felt a lurch of apprehension, as if he'd suddenly been transported onto no man's land. The funny thing was, he'd had it before Daisy'd even asked Alfred.

It had been a premonition, he decided five minutes later, when Ivy swung onto the seat next to him and asked, "How did it go?"

"Brilliant!" Daisy said, immediately.

"Good – so you're officially in business?" Ivy said, looking between them.

"Oh, yes – that too," Daisy said. She couldn't stop smiling.

"Well congratulations – that makes you two for two this morning," Ivy said to Alfred.

"What?"

She sighed. "I've been thinking, and – you were right. About Peter. It's a bit soon to ask him to the wedding – I don't want to come on too strong and scare him off" –

Jimmy turned his head and stared, incredulous. "Oh, _now_ you're worried about coming on too strong?" he said, unwisely.

Ivy set her jaw, but didn't acknowledge him. " – so I've been thinking – d'you want to go with me this weekend?"

"You're asking me to go to the wedding with you?" Alfred repeated, sounding dazed.

"As friends – yeah," Ivy said. "I mean – if you don't have any plans, or anything."

"No," Alfred said, with an immediate shake of his head. "I don't have any plans."

Daisy drew in an audible breath, and Alfred started. "Oh – Daisy…I forgot. You don't mind if" –

"Oh, if you've arranged something with Daisy, you shouldn't" – Ivy began.

"No!" Alfred said. "We've nothing arranged, do we?"

Abruptly, Daisy got to her feet. "No, we had nothing _arranged._"

Perhaps willfully heedless of the fury evident in every line of Daisy's posture, Alfred smiled and said, "Thanks. And – look, if you're at a loose end this weekend, I'm sure Jimmy wouldn't mind doing something with you."

Daisy stomped away, and Mrs Patmore walked past and flapped her tea-towel at them. "D'you know something? You're all as blind as bats when it comes to seeing what's in front of your noses – every last one of you."

She certainly had a point when it came to Alfred, Ivy and Daisy…though really, Jimmy didn't know what _he'd _everdone to merit inclusion in that group.


	16. Chapter 16

Perhaps it counted as stirring the pot, but when Ivy broached the idea of staying the entire weekend, Jimmy was enthusiastically in favour.

"The whole weekend?" Alfred repeated, with the air of a man saying 'one million pounds, tax free?'

"Yeah – I thought we could drive down on Friday evening, settle in to the hotel, have a nice meal and a relaxing night, and be all ready for the wedding Saturday. Then on Sunday we could have a lie-in, check out of the hotel, have lunch…go for a bit of a walk, maybe, and make our way back. I mean…I know it's more money, but we could take our time and not have to rush. If you wanted," she added, in the face of Alfred's silence.

He stared at her, mouth opening and closing. It was obvious that the prospect of an entire weekend alone with Ivy had undone him.

Ivy took this the wrong way. "But if you want we can drive down Saturday morning, and back first thing on Sunday..."

"No!" Jimmy said quickly – then in a more measured voice as they both turned to look at him, "No point rushing and racing is there? You might as well take your time – enjoy it…isn't that _right_, Alfred?"

A whole weekend, free of cleaning rotas and shower schedules – it lay ahead of him, just within his grasp. He gave Alfred a dig in the ribs, and Alfred finally located a word – just one. Luckily, that word was a hushed and fervent, "_Yes_."

But it was Jimmy that Ivy spoke to next. "I'm glad you feel that way about it, Jimmy," she said. "Because my friend Maria's going to the wedding as well, and _they're _making a weekend of it too – her and her husband" –

Jimmy waited for the other shoe to drop. He had a feeling it was going to be a sizeable Doc Marten.

"…and they need someone to look after their dog." Before he could approve or veto the idea, she smiled a smile that was all show, and said, "I _knew _you'd want to help."

Jimmy thought about objecting, but even if the dog needed to be walked and fed, it wasn't as if the dog was going to shower with him, or make him clean the floors. A free weekend was a free weekend – even with a dog thrown in there.

He was forced to re-evaluate upon actually meeting the dog in question.

" – Wellington has an enlarged heart, so he'll need his Digoxin every twelve hours…that has to be taken on an empty stomach. He'll also need to take _these _to help with his blood pressure, and he has a diuretic as well for his kidneys." Maria, a short, curvy girl about Ivy's age, handed over each bottle of pills as she explained what it was for. "And the last time we took him to the vet we found out that he's developed hypothyroidism as well, poor boy. So he's just started on this stuff, too. You'll have to be careful giving them to him, because some of those medications could react badly, if they're mixed. But don't worry, I've written it all down for you, and all you have to do is follow the schedule. Exactly."

In spite of her words, Maria's smile was anxious and didn't reach her eyes. "He loves walkies, but he's a bit slow obviously, because of his age and everything, so you have to take it easy when you bring him out. And – because of the hypothyroidism, he needs the toilet a lot…and he doesn't always make it outside – but that's _not his fault, _and you shouldn't give out to him. He's a very sensitive soul, and he hates being shouted at."

She took a breath. "Also, just be careful if you're giving him any treats. I mean, the dogfood is fine, but because of his heart he has to try and avoid sodium, so…just be aware of it. I've left my number, and Jack's, and the vet's as well…in case." She bit her lip. "Are you sure you're all right with all that?"

"Of course he is," Ivy said. "Aren't you, Jimmy?"

Jimmy stared down at the dog. It purported to be an Airedale terrier, but really, it looked more like a velveteen canine – a stuffed toy that had been inexpertly loved into existence – bald patches, loose stitching and all.

"I mean, Welly's a sweetheart, and I know you'll have a great time – everybody adores him" –

The dog wagged its tail upon hearing its name, and Jimmy half-feared it would fall off.

" – but I know he's a big responsibility too…we've had so many scares with him, over the years…you _will _take good care of him, won't you?" she pleaded.

"Don't worry about that," Ivy told her, rubbing Maria's shoulders reassuringly. "Jimmy'll look after Wellington like he was his own." Her eyes met Jimmy's, hard, in contrast to her careful, soothing voice, "He knows he's got me to answer to if anything happens to him."

But it wasn't until late Friday evening, after Maria had left that the reality of the situation really sank in. He studied the stapled sheaf of paper she had left with closely written instructions for looking after the dog, and said, "But what am I supposed to do with it?"

"You want _more _instructions?" Ivy asked, as she hefted her suitcase into Alfred's arms. Alfred obediently exited, ready to load it into his ridiculously small car.

"I _mean, _I'm working Saturday – what am I supposed to do about its medicine, and feeding it?"

"You're just going to have to sort something out," she said, before crossing the room to stand in front of him. "But I'm warning you, Welly's almost part of the family – Maria's had him since we were at school together…and if _anything _goes wrong this weekend, _anything – _I'm blaming you."

On hearing his name Wellington lumbered creakily across the floor to lick Ivy's hand. Then he coughed – a prolonged affair that Jimmy was surprised didn't end with one of Wellington's internal organs on the floor.

"But what if something just happens? He's _old," _Jimmy pointed out. "What if he…dies, or something?"

"Then you make sure you give him the kiss of life," Ivy told him grimly. Smile tinged with malice, she scratched behind Wellington's ears (a flurry of short hairs silently rained onto the floor) and said, "Have _fun, _and we'll see you on Sunday."

Wellington curled up at Jimmy's feet as the door closed.

* * *

Come Saturday morning, there was only one thing to be done.

Unfortunately, Edna was the first person he saw after he parked his car. "Did you roll over it on the way to work? Poor thing – you ought to put it out of its misery."

But though she displayed a sort of morbid interest, when approached to actually _help – _"It's not my job," Edna said, arms crossed. "And I don't want to _touch _it – it looks like it's got diseases."

She did however, consent to fetch someone who might actually prove useful (Jimmy was afraid that Wellington would expire if forced to walk the considerable distance from the staff car park to the gift shop), and while they waited for Anna, Wellington investigated his car, thoughtfully pausing to christen all four tyres.

When Anna finally appeared, she was carrying a large box (the one the recent shipment of stuffed sheep had come in), while Edna had an armful of Mr Bates' newspapers.

"You're lucky tomorrow's our day for the recycling," she informed Jimmy, before bending down to pat Wellington on the head. "And who's _this_? You _have_ been in the wars, haven't you, boy?"

"His name's Wellington. He's on medication and I can't leave him at home," Jimmy explained. "He needs someone to look after him."

"Quite right," Anna said. "But how are we going to get him inside?"

In the end, Edna was sent to distract Mr Carson, while Anna and Jimmy manhandled Wellington (now safely packed inside the cardboard box) down the corridors to Mr Barrow's office.

"Do I have to?" Edna had said, but with her usual brand of firm, no-nonsense pleasantness, Anna had replied, "Well, it's either _that_, or you can be the one to carry the box," and Edna had relented.

And so, he and Anna had scurried (insomuch as one _could _scurry while carrying an enormous box stuffed full of Airedale and newspaper) past the staff entrance and through the house. There was one hair-raising moment when they turned a corner and almost ran in to Mrs Hughes, but thanks to Mrs Hughes' attention being focused on the enormous ring of keys she was sorting through, and some speedy reversing by Anna, they managed to avoid her.

When they finally reached the office, Anna and Jimmy carefully set down the cardboard box in a corner of the room. Wellington poked his nose out of the box, but seemed content to remain inside. Anna petted him again before turning to Jimmy. "I'd best be off then. I take it you can handle Thomas on your own?"

It was the sort of thing that would have inspired panic in Jimmy a short while ago…and in a way, it still did. His stomach gave an unpleasant, sideways lurch…but he stopped it there. Anna's face was open and sincere, entirely free of secret insinuations. And even if it wasn't –

"Yeah," he said instead. "I'll be fine."

She smiled. "Well – good luck. And let me know if you need anything else."

* * *

Mr Barrow's initial reaction was not favourable. "What's this?" he asked, staring at Wellington with a disconcerted frown.

"It's a dog," Jimmy said. Mr Barrow then leveled the stare at _him_ for a long, unblinking moment. "His name's Wellington."

At the sound of his name, Wellington gave a wispy sounding woof and wet himself.

"I think that means he likes you," Jimmy said, to cover the awkward silence as a dark stain spread across the newspaper underneath Wellington.

Mr Barrow tilted his head to the side. Dryly, he said, "I hope he doesn't expect me to return the compliment."

"He's Ivy's friend's dog. I'm minding him for the weekend."

"Right – and in return he's going to help you with your paperwork? I don't think so." Mr Barrow bypassed the cardboard box to sit down at his desk, and turn on his computer. "You can mind him on your own time. Get him out of here."

He looked up a few moments later, when it became impossible to ignore the fact that Jimmy hadn't moved.

"But – you don't understand," Jimmy said. He felt a little thrown by the fact that Mr Barrow had shut him down so quickly. Actually, he felt a _lot _thrown. He'd expected to _explain, _certainly, but he hadn't expected to be summarilydismissed out of hand.

At Mr Barrow's raised eyebrows he gathered himself. "The dog's sick" –

Obligingly, Wellington went into a paroxysm of coughing that lasted for almost a full minute.

"I can see that," Mr Barrow said. "It looks like it's _decomposing._"

" – and he needs all this medicine and looking after."

"Very heartwrenching, but I still don't see why he's in _here_."

"Because if anything happens to him, Ivy'll kill me – and you couldn't live with yourself if you were in any way responsible for my death," Jimmy tried.

Mr Barrow didn't look impressed. "I don't think I could live with myself if I were in any way responsible for stains on the carpet."

Anna had said _I take it you can handle Thomas on your own, _and it was only the barest formality that turned the words into a question. It hadn't been a question for Jimmy _at all – _he'd worried about Mr Carson, he'd worried about getting the dog into the building, and – given Wellington's lack of bladder control – he'd worried about the upholstery in his _car _– but he'd never once worried about Mr Barrow's reaction to having an incontinent dog in the office. He'd just sort of – assumed Mr Barrow would be on his side. The way Anna had. The way he _was._

Mr Barrow_ – looked out for him_. Had done, almost ever since they'd met, almost. And, since they were friends now, Jimmy was allowed to _like_ that. To rely on it. He felt a stab of anxiety that had nothing to do with the dog, or even Ivy, as he looked right at Mr Barrow and said, "_Please_."

Mr Barrow stared back at him for a long moment, and Jimmy didn't know what his face was giving away – but whatever it was, it worked, and Mr Barrow's shoulders slumped before he gave the slightest nod.

Jimmy couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

"But if there's any mess, you're the one cleaning it up," Mr Barrow warned.

Jimmy felt warmed, right down to his core. "Thank you," he said, quite sincerely. But Mr Barrow only shrugged irritably and turned back to his work.

Still, when it came time for his morning meeting with Mr Carson, instead of waiting for Mr Carson to come to him, as he usually did, Mr Barrow ducked out of the door a few minutes earlier and Jimmy heard his voice in the hall, voice growing fainter as he said, "Ah, Mr Carson, I thought we could" –

And he brought back an extra newspaper when he returned.

Jimmy couldn't keep the warm feeling down, even when he had to give Wellington one of his pills – a dark business. It wasn't so much the administering of the pill (though that was quite unpleasant, sitting on the floor with Wellington between his knees and coaxing his mouth open), as it was the persistent fear that Wellington's bladder might not hold out. Still, something insisted on lightening Jimmy's mood – and it wasn't the way Wellington licked his face afterwards.

Mr Barrow even helped him smuggle Wellington back out to the car when the workday was over. "It's been in the office all day – if Mr Carson sees it, I can't claim blindness," Mr Barrow said, then wrinkled his nose. "Or loss of smell."

But the fact remained, he _did_ it – and Jimmy knew better anyway.

This time they _did _run into Mrs Hughes – or rather, Mrs Hughes ran into _them, _stepping out without warning from one of the side doors, and right into Jimmy.

"Oh," she said, steadying herself with a hand to Jimmy's shoulder. "James – I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

Then, as she took in the large box between he and Mr Barrow, "What's in there?"

With timing that bordered on the comic, Wellington poked his head out, like a moulting Jack-in-the-box. Mrs Hughes recoiled. "Oh my goodness!"

It was Mr Barrow's turn to explain, "It's a dog," and Jimmy's turn to level the 'you-must-be-joking' stare at him.

Mrs Hughes, however, was blind to this, staring at Wellington with fascinated horror. "Are you _sure?_"

"He's Ivy's friend's" – Jimmy began to explain, but with a shake of her head, Mrs Hughes came back to herself, "You don't have time for all that right now – for heaven's sake, you'd better get him out of here before Mr Carson sees. Go on! Go!"

She flapped her hands at them, and as they hoisted the box again and aimed themselves once more in the direction of the staff exit, she called out, "You can pay me a visit tomorrow, Thomas. And you can explain everything then."

Her face was stern, but her voice held the barest tinge of amusement. As they turned down another corridor, Jimmy noted, "She's fond of you."

"Of course she is," Mr Barrow said, not really paying attention as he tried to get a better grip on the box. "Can you blame her?"

_No, _Jimmy thought suddenly, with a flash of sentimentality that was both stupid and embarrassingly strong. "It's not really fair, is it though," he said. "Playing favourites. She doesn't even bother with _me_."

"She's got good taste, Mrs Hughes," Mr Barrow observed, and Jimmy made a face at him.

They managed to get to the car without further incident, and Mr Barrow helped him load Wellington into the back seat. When the door was closed, he put his front paw up against the window, as if to say goodbye to Mr Barrow.

"Right," Mr Barrow said, straightening up. The front of his shirt was covered in dog hair, and without thinking, Jimmy reached out, thinking to brush them off, only to remember himself and pull his hands back at the last minute, embarrassed. "You've got…" he said instead, and gestured.

Mr Barrow brushed himself off.

"D'you want a drink?" Jimmy said suddenly. "I owe you one – for today."

"Just one?" Mr Barrow asked, but the corners of his mouth tipped up infinitesimally and he looked amused.

"Is that a yes?" Jimmy cocked his head to the side.

Mr Barrow looked away for a moment, then back at him. "All right," he said. "Though I don't know where you're going to find a pub that'll take _him,_" he nodded at Wellington.

Jimmy deflated, only to be immediately struck by a better idea. "Then come around to mine, instead."

Mr Barrow frowned. "What?"

"Come around to our house," Jimmy repeated. "You know where we live, don't you? You can even go home and get changed first, if you like. Make yourself comfortable. All right?"

It took Mr Barrow a fraction of a second longer than it should have to say, "All right," but that didn't matter, Jimmy thought, once he actually said it.

"Good. I'll see you then," Jimmy said - and, fearing for his car, should Wellington's bladder choose to get engaged in the proceedings, he quickly sat in to the driver's seat, and sped off.

* * *

For all that, it was a surprise when – some time later, Mr Barrow showed up on his doorstep. Not that Mr Barrow was _there, _exactly – he'd _invited _the man, after all, he'd been expecting him. It was more that Mr Barrow had taken his advice, and changed before coming over.

He was used to seeing Mr Barrow in workwear – Mr Barrow in casual clothes seemed…not like a different _person, _exactly, but different, all the same.

Mr Barrow wandered in to the sitting room. Wellington stood up in his fresh cardboard box, barked a greeting, and soiled himself.

"Is that his party trick, then?" Mr Barrow asked, standing over him. "Only, I have seen better."

Jimmy laughed. "Sit down, and I'll get you a drink."

All there was in the fridge was cider – and it was Alfred's – but Mr Barrow didn't object when Jimmy handed him a can, and dropped down onto the couch next to him. He wore a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans (_jeans!_), and there was nothing objectionable or particularly remarkable about it…but it did feel strangely _intimate_, to Jimmy. Like he was seeing Mr Barrow without his armour, or something.

"Nice," Mr Barrow said, looking around the room. His lips quirked. "Very – clean." Only two words, but they contained a wealth of remembered complaints about Ivy and furniture polish.

"Don't," Jimmy narrowed his eyes. "Or I'll tell you exactly what I had to do to get the floors so shiny."

They talked easily, and it took him a little while to pinpoint the grit that kept catching him, sticking in his throat. And it was only after he'd finished his can of cider that he found the nerve to correct it, turning to Mr Barrow – no, _not _Mr Barrow, he'd left Mr Barrow back at the office – and saying, "D'you want another, Thomas?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows, but restrained himself to a mild, "That's new."

"Well, I'm not going to call you _Mr Barrow _when I'm drinking with you." Jimmy told him, then looked him full in the face, challenging. "Besides, _they _do it. Mrs Hughes, Anna, _Daisy – _they all call you Thomas. And they don't know you as well as I do."

"Oh no?" Thomas' tone was unreadable, though Jimmy thought he detected skepticism, but he stood by his point.

"They might've known you longer," he allowed, "But longer don't automatically mean better, does it?" Thomas wasn't sitting on any of _their _couches, in his ordinary clothes, drinking with them. Thomas had never thought enough of any of them to kiss _them_ in a darkened room. "Otherwise you'd be spending your free time with Mr Bates, wouldn't you?"

"That's a very nice straw man you've got there," Thomas said with a smirk, "But you'd want to be careful – I could set him alight in five minutes flat."

He snapped his fingers, amused…and Jimmy's conviction wavered a little when he remembered the look on Mrs Hughes' face when they'd run in to her, a skeptical, knowing kind of fondness.

"All right then," he said, "If you don't agree, you can tell me all about yourself, and then I'll be right anyway."

"Bloody hell, is this an interrogation or a social call?" Thomas shot back.

"Tell me why Mrs Hughes likes you so much," Jimmy pressed. "Go on."

"Like I said, she's got good taste," Thomas said, then, when Jimmy remained expectantly silent, he sighed in exasperation. "How would I know? Suppose I've been here so long…maybe familiarity doesn't just breed contempt, and I'm just a walkin' example of that."

"No, that's not it," Jimmy said, shaking his head. "She _likes _you. You should've seen the look on her face in Mr Carson's office when O' Brien said that you'd" – he stopped abruptly. Neither of them had mentioned that day since they'd called their truce.

As if he hadn't noticed it, Thomas continued smoothly, "Mind you, she has taken my part a few times, against Mr Carson. I've been here since I was just a kid…it's a long time. Suppose she knows me as well as anyone, really."

Thomas looked very young to him then, in his casual clothes, hair falling into his eyes and arm hanging over the back of the sofa. He was only a few years older than Jimmy – and Jimmy suddenly had an image of Thomas as a teenager at Downton, and was seized with a desire to know more about him that was strange, and almost physical in its manifestation.

After the second can, Thomas got to his feet and made his goodbyes. Wellington dragged himself over and rubbed his head against Thomas' legs, before sprawling on his side on the floor, exhausted by the effort. "See, he likes you too," Jimmy said.

"Well, I can sleep easy in my bed tonight then, can't I? Knowing the _dog_ approves of me," Thomas said, but he cuffed Wellington's ear all the same.

"It's my day off tomorrow," Jimmy said at the front door.

Thomas paused. "Oh? Alright…I suppose I'll see you Monday then."

Jimmy felt loose and easy from the cider, and it had been a good night. He leaned against the doorframe. "Or you could come over tomorrow again. Have another drink."

Thomas' eyes flicked over him, but Jimmy didn't straighten up. _I know you, _he thought.

"I might have better things to do tomorrow, you never know," Thomas said.

"You might," Jimmy acknowledged, with a careless tilt of his head.

_I do know you – and I know you even better now. _

He smiled at Thomas, "But you'll come anyway, won't you?"

_Because you want to know me too._

They looked at each other for a moment, curiously arrested, before Thomas shook his head, breaking eye-contact.

"Very sure of yourself, aren't you?" he said, before he turned and began walking away.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Jimmy called, but he couldn't help the way his voice lifted upwards at the end, turning it into a question.

Still moving, Thomas swung around for a moment. Jimmy could hear the smile in his voice as he observed, "…but not as sure as all that."

He didn't say anything else, just kept walking, but Jimmy had a good feeling about it. _I take it you can handle Thomas on your own? _Anna's voice echoed in his mind, and this time, it made him smile.

* * *

The next day was a lazy one – he medicated Wellington and took medicating him for an amble around the neighbourhood (well, given the way Wellington walked, more of a _stumble _around the neighbourhood), and gave him his food, bought a supply of newspapers from the village shop so that Wellington could wet himself with a minimum of inconvenience to the floors Jimmy had slaved over.

It was with a sense of satisfaction and anticipation that Jimmy heard the front door bell.

"I knew you'd come," he announced to Thomas as he opened it.

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "I hope you didn't spend too long over the crystal ball on that one."

Jimmy rolled his eyes, and opened the door even wider. Thomas stepped inside.

It was nice – the telly on low, drinks in their hands…dog pissing peaceably in the corner – it made Jimmy feel contented. He put his feet up on the table and leaned his head back against the cushions.

"How old is he, anyway?" Thomas asked, squinting over at Wellington.

"I think he's about…eighty-five? In dog years," Jimmy clarified. "So what…maybe a few thousand years old if you convert it."

Thomas smiled a bit.

"How old were you, when you started at Downton?" Jimmy asked. It probably wasn't as smooth a lead-in to the subject as Jimmy had thought, because Thomas turned around to look at him, but after a moment of silence, he answered.

"Can't remember exactly. I was still at school though…started in the summer holidays, doing odd jobs…kept at it, and worked my way up to tour guide."

"Ambitious," Jimmy said, with a smirk.

"I suppose," Thomas shrugged, then frowned slightly. "But I don't know if it was _all_ that. It was – an escape. From the smallness of everything. I didn't like school much."

He said it coolly enough, but Jimmy caught on to it, some feeling buried beneath the words. "Yeah?" he said. "What was wrong with it? School, I mean."

"Let's just say they didn't like me any more than I liked them," Thomas told him, with his usual, slightly sinister understatement. "Mind you, they didn't like me much at Downton either. But it was different there. I could manage it." He smiled one of those miniature smiles, the ones that just touched the corners of his mouth. "Believe me, Mrs Hughes didn't like me _then."_

"You did say she had good taste," Jimmy agreed thoughtfully.

Thomas threw him a sidelong look, but continued. "And then, me dad died, and…" he shrugged. "It just sort of got to feeling like I'd always been there. Even though I hadn't."

Jimmy frowned. "Then why'd you leave?"

Thomas didn't answer, instead he turned to face Jimmy more fully on the couch and said, "What about you, then?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Saw an ad in the paper, went for an interview, got the job. Not much to it, really." He paused, because it didn't seem fair to fob Thomas off with the bare minimum, after he'd answered Jimmy's questions. Granted, he'd only given Jimmy a potted history of Thomas Barrow, but – he'd given enough for Jimmy to realize one thing. "I know what you mean, though."

Thomas looked at him, brow creasing. "Y'do?"

Jimmy thought about Thomas Barrow, younger and deliberately unpleasant, and hanging on to Downton with clenched fingers, because it was _his, _in some way. "Yeah. I mean, s'like I said to you – I'm all on my own, and whatever I get…that's _mine."_

He didn't want to get any deeper into it, didn't want to go poking around in dark, sad corners, so he held Thomas' gaze, and hoped he'd understand.

_We're alike, you and me, _he thought, and felt a jolt of exhilaration – fellow feeling.

"So that wasn't all made up, then?" Mr Barrow said, finally.

Jimmy frowned at him. "What? No."

"Thought it might have been part of that 'tell him what he wants to hear' plan," Thomas said, in an even voice. "I wasn't sure."

Jimmy felt a wave of embarrassment crash through him, leaving him with hot cheeks. "That wasn't – I didn't" –

"It's all right," Thomas said quickly.

"That wasn't made up," Jimmy said, then felt compelled to stress, with an accompanying jerky movement of his hand that gestured at the space between them as they sat together on the couch, "_This _isn't."

Thomas swallowed. Then, almost casually he said, "I suppose it _would_ be hard to make up something like that," with a nod of his head toward Wellington, who was curled up inside his box and snoring raspily, looking like the reanimated corpse of an Airedale.

It broke the tension and Jimmy smiled, and the rest of the night was easy. Thomas didn't seem in any hurry to leave, and they half-watched some overwrought drama Ivy had recorded, and made fun of it. It was nice, Jimmy couldn't remember when last he'd had such a good time, and he fought the heaviness of his eyelids and their tendency to droop.

Fruitlessly, because when he jerked to wakefulness after what he was certain had only been a few minutes, it was to find the telly switched off, the room dark, and Thomas gone.

He felt a brief moment of disorientation, an unsettling stab of confusion that felt almost like disappointment, before he scrubbed his hands across his face, and went to lock up.


	17. Chapter 17

It ended very suddenly– Jimmy jerked into wakefulness as someone opened his bedroom door.

"_What_?" he said, turning over.

"Where's Wellington?" Ivy hissed. "Maria's here and she wants to take him home tonight, instead of in the morning."

Jimmy sat up and switched on his bedside light, squinting at the sudden brightness.

"Where _is _he?" Ivy demanded again, but she sounded panicked rather than annoyed. "Did you put him _outside? _You _know _he has a weak chest, Maria told you that, and if he gets an infection he could" –

"He's over _there_," Jimmy interrupted, pointing towards the corner, where Wellington was curled up in his cardboard box. The snoring had thankfully died down an hour or so ago.

"Oh." Ivy stopped. "You let him sleep _here? _In your room?"

"He kept whining," Jimmy explained, unaccountably self-conscious.

Waking Wellington proved to be a two-person job, though when he saw Maria standing in the kitchen, he broke into a funny stiff-legged sort of gambol.

"I'm sorry, " she said to Jimmy, crouching down to hug Wellington gingerly, but with great enthusiasm. "I know I told Ivy we'd collect him in the morning, but I just had to see my boy right away, didn't I Welly?"

She got to her feet and hugged Jimmy then, a brief, surprising moment of contact. "Thank you for taking such good care of him," she said.

Then there was a flurry of collecting medication and further hugs (Ivy and Maria, though Alfred hovered hopefully nearby). At the door, Maria told Wellington, "Say goodbye to Jimmy," and Wellington extended his paw, which Jimmy cautiously shook.

After that, there was nothing much else to do except go back to bed.

It was only the next morning, which arrived far too soon, that Jimmy felt awake enough to ask, "How was the wedding?"

Alfred and Ivy looked at each other before Ivy said, "It was…alright." She smiled a private kind of smile. "Quite nice, actually."

Alfred ducked his head, a radiant, red-headed sun, before thinking to ask Jimmy, "How was your weekend?"

"It was…alright," Jimmy found himself saying. _Quite nice, actually. _

Alfred turned to Ivy and told her, "I think I've made too much – can I give Jimmy the rest of the scrambled eggs?"

Ivy hesitated, then lifted one shoulder in studied indifference.

* * *

And that was the thing about the wedding – it seemed to have cooled most of Ivy's burning dislike of him. She _tried_ to keep it up, but it was a half-hearted effort at best.

Sometimes she made mention of the cleaning rota, or the fact that Jimmy's food had again found its way into Alfred's cupboards, and there was once talk of drawing up a television schedule…but this never materialized, and things went on almost as they had before, with occasional, almost absent-minded forays into spite by Ivy.

Alfred complained once about his cider, but after Jimmy fixed him with a hard glare and said, "You are _not _complaining about a few cans of cider after I helped you spend an entire weekend with Ivy," he subsided, with only a few grumbles about how he'd had plans to simmer a ham in that cider...

There wasn't really any reason for Jimmy to find himself lingering in the office in the evenings. There was the exhibition, of course, which was scheduled for the end of the week, but most of the work for that was long done – the delay had come from trying to find a day during which all, or at least most, of the Family could attend.

"For people who mostly don't have anything else to _do, _they're bloody hard to pin down," Jimmy had grumbled to Thomas, after yet another round of phonecalls and excuses. But now it was all arranged, and there shouldn't have been any call for overtime on his part.

Of course, sitting back in his chair and chatting with Thomas at the end of the work day probably wasn't classified as _overtime, _Jimmy had to admit. It was too enjoyable, for one. But Thomas never seemed in any hurry to leave either.

That was another thing the weekend of the wedding had changed. Mr Barrow was Thomas to Jimmy now, all the time. It probably would have been better to think of him as Mr Barrow during work hours, and then Thomas afterwards – Jimmy had even _tried_ to do that, for a day or two…but found he couldn't. People didn't work that way, and so he was Thomas to Jimmy now, always. Even in the office, when Jimmy called him Mr Barrow, in front of Mr Carson or whoever, underneath he _thought_ of him as Thomas, like a secret.

It wasn't the only secret he had though. Thomas looked at him this evening (every evening) with knowing eyes and said, "What is it tonight? Carpets? Dusting?"

"Toilets," Jimmy said easily. He didn't know why he was allowing Thomas to think that Ivy was still on the warpath about cleanliness. It was simpler, he decided. Simpler _why _or _than what, _he studiously avoided thinking about. It felt like a chasm might open beneath the seemingly solid ground beneath his feet if he started questioning it.

Anyway, what did it matter, really, if the end result was him and Thomas talking and having a bit of fun?

"Cards?" Thomas raised his eyebrows, as Jimmy pulled out a deck. "You _are_ prepared."

"I do my best," Jimmy said, and began to shuffle.

Thomas said, "Careful, or I'll begin to think you're planning this."

It was clearly a joke, from the light way Thomas spoke – but because of what he didn't know, it hit far too close to the bone. Jimmy quickly downplayed it by saying, "Well, if it comes down to an evening with Toilet Duck, or an evening with you…"

"I'm flattered," Thomas said, in a tone that was anything but.

Jimmy grinned. "Deal you in?" he asked, hands already doing so.

It was strange. A look passed over Thomas' face, and Jimmy could have sworn that he was going to refuse. But it was only a second, and then it was gone, and Thomas picked up his cards.

It made Jimmy uneasy. Friday, after the exhibition, they could go out for a drink – but they couldn't do that _every_ night. If Thomas started to kick up about his cleaning schedule story, well…

Jimmy supposed he'd just have to come up with some different excuses, that was all.

* * *

As the week neared its end, Mr Carson became more unbearable – even though the exhibition had nothing to do with _him_.

"That's how he always is, when it comes to the family," Thomas said, with a roll of his eyes. "Everything has to be perfect. If there wasn't a welcome mat, he'd lie down and let Lord Grantham wipe his feet on him."

Jimmy grinned. "Well, _there's_ a reason to look forward to Friday."

Secretly, he was storing up everything, every complaint and each small success of the week, in readiness for Friday. They would make a proper night of it, Jimmy decided. Maybe after the pub closed, they could go back to Thomas' house. It would only be fair – Thomas had been to _his _house twice, after all. It was about time he returned the courtesy.

He thought about this very often on Friday, when, despite all the prior planning and work, a dozen small problems cropped up.

"There's been a cancellation," Jimmy told Thomas, during one of the few moments they met on Friday (Thomas being elsewhere for most of the day, overseeing everything). "One of the daughters can't make it – the youngest."

Jimmy expected Thomas to make some annoyed, witty remark, but instead he said, "I know. It's a pity – I think she'd have liked it." He sounded disappointed, if anything, and Jimmy made a mental note to ask him about it later.

It seemed hardly any time at all before they had to go home and change and then return. In the entrance hall when they met up, Thomas' eyes flicked over him quickly, almost involuntarily, before he looked away. Jimmy pretended not to notice, and looked back evenly.

Thomas was good-looking, he thought idly. This wasn't exactly _news – _it had been one of the first things he'd noticed back when Thomas had arrived. But after everything that had happened, it was only sometimes, like now, that it intruded on Jimmy's mind, and he consciously _remembered _how good-looking Thomas was. Jimmy wished, for just a second, that there was some way to tell Thomas that he looked smart, too, without the inevitable _awkwardness _or _misinterpretation. _

People gathered and milled about – looking at the photographs and items with interest. There was a local reporter (not the same one that had interviewed Thomas before) and a photographer too.

"Good turn out, isn't it?" Crawley said, with banal pleasantness. There was a bit of a thrill in finally having the Family there – though the people now assembled in Downton were somehow simultaneously larger than life, and disappointingly ordinary.

Lord Grantham looked right at home, though he kept casting glances around the room, as if to reassure himself that everything was still there. His wife seemed as if she had that mild, pleasant smile surgically stapled to her face. The eldest daughter, on the other hand, while beautiful in an extremely clean, severe way, looked as if the only smile at home on her face was a supercilious one.

That was, until Carson stepped forward and said, "Lady Mary," with genuine fondness rumbling through his voice, and her expression melted into something slightly softer. "Carson," she said. "It's good to see you again."

She also seemed touched when Anna presented her with a small giftwrapped present for her baby. Of course, the superior look snapped back into place for everyone else. She held out an indifferent hand to Jimmy and she was positively Arctic when she greeted Thomas.

"Well, motherhood certainly hasn't changed that one," Jimmy heard Mrs Hughes murmur to Mr Carson, who frowned quellingly in response.

"I didn't think you were coming," Jimmy said to Anna. She and Mr Bates were rather out of it, located as they were, outside the main building.

"I know, but I wanted to see Lady Mary, and I didn't know when I'd have another chance," Anna said. She wore a simple black dress, and looked quite smart.

"Besides, we decided it would be bad form not to give Thomas the opportunity to gloat," Mr Bates chimed in, with a smile.

"Behave," Anna said, smacking him lightly on the chest. He glanced over her head, to where the other daughter was standing, the one who looked as if she put much more effort than her sister into everything, but for less result – and gave a low whistle. "Now _there's _a turn up for the books."

Anna looked too. "I never thought he'd show his face here again."

The second daughter, Edith, had brought a guest with her – a man with a hopeful sort of hairline and an air of self-possession. Thomas had told Jimmy she was seeing some newspaper editor, still married, and Jimmy supposed this must be him. He didn't know why Anna and Mr Bates should take it so personally though.

When Jimmy finally made his way over to Thomas, he was speaking with the imperious old grandmother. " – certainly _different," _she said, lips shaping the word 'different' gingerly, as if it were a venomous insect.

"Don't mind Granny," Edith Crawley said, popping up at her elbow. "She's still rather suspicious of change."

"Sometimes not so much _change, _as the _agents_ of change," the grandmother said, with a funny little birdlike motion of her head. Thomas remained straightfaced, and Jimmy stifled a grin.

"I think it's fascinating, really," Edith was saying, gesturing at the large picture of Lily Jones to her left. Her smile always seemed to linger on her face just a fraction of a second too long. "I'm thinking about writing a piece on it – you know, exploring it from my own perspective."

"Edith's into self-flagellation these days." Her companion stepped up next to her, and right into the conversation. Jimmy could feel Thomas stiffen next to him. He knew Thomas, of all people, didn't give a hang about Edith Crawley and her married editor, and he threw a curious look in his direction.

"Thomas," the man nodded.

"Your grace," Thomas acknowledged, tilting his head. The other man's lips quirked upwards. The whole thing had a strange, pantomimed feel to Jimmy.

"Oh – I brought a guest…I hope you don't mind," Edith said, redundantly gesturing at her friend.

"I'm afraid I was rather insistent," the man said, still smiling at Thomas. "So if you need to blame someone, you can take it out on me."

"Not at all," Thomas said, very smoothly. He turned to Jimmy and said, "James, this is Philip, the Duke of Crowborough – Philip, this is James Kent."

The Duke's eyes flicked over him, and he hid a smile before tossing off a dismissive, "Delighted."

"Philip and I just happened to run in to each other at a party the other night, and we got to talking, and I mentioned all the changes at Downton" –

"And I was terribly curious, of course, and invited myself. Wanted to see all the changes in the old pile up close and personal…so to speak."

"It is rather like a car wreck, isn't it?" the grandmother said. "One can't look away. However much one might like to."

"And what d'you think?" Thomas asked, attention entirely on the Duke – _Philip_. There was the barest hint of challenge in his voice. Jimmy looked between them.

The Duke looked deeply, privately amused, and he didn't take his soft-looking brown eyes off Thomas for a moment. Jimmy felt a clutch of distaste deep in his chest. "Oh, from what I can see, it's weathered remarkably well…all things considered. But I suppose you would know best." He smiled deceptively, sweetly. "Perhaps we might find the time for a compare and contrast later?"

Thomas didn't reply, and something eased inside Jimmy.

Edith Crawley, who seemed the type to whom uncomfortable silences were a depressing familiarity, cast about, and as her sister walked by, she raised her voice and said, "And what do you think of the changes, Mary?"

Mary Crawley stopped. "Philip," she said, sounding genuinely startled, then turned to Edith. "Are we digging up old skeletons?" Her eyes slid from Edith's hair to her toes, "At least you're dressed for it, I suppose."

"I don't know what you mean," Edith protested, but Mary ignored her, and rounded on Thomas as she replied, "As for the changes, I think I preferred it when Downton hadn't been manipulated into a commodity."

"You're right – I don't think anyone would have used the word '_commodity'_ to describe it before," Thomas said, coolly turning her words.

Mary Crawley pressed her lips together, acknowledging the hit, but almost immediately firing back, "It was hardly a mouldering heap of ruins when you began. And if you must know, I liked Carson's way of handling the estate. Downton had a certain quiet _dignity _to it then."

"Mm," Thomas agreed. "A bit _too _quiet, in the off-season, if I recall."

There was an odd animosity simmering in the air, both parties brittly hostile. Both Edith Crawley and her grandmother seemed disconcerted by it, exchanging nonplussed looks with Jimmy. The Duke, on the other hand, sipped from his glass, quite composed.

"Maybe you're just finding it difficult to look at all _this _– from a different perspective," Thomas said, with a roll of his hands that took in the picture of Lily Jones. "One that shows exactly how our lot got shafted."

Mary Crawley opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the grandmother spoke up. "Well, whatever the faults of _our _lot," she said, repeating Thomas' words with careful, caustic emphasis, " – when you were done, we at least had the good manners to let your lot _rest in peace." _Her eyes slid dismissively over the enormous photograph of Lily Jones, before she turned and swept off, conversation clearly closed.

"Well, that's you told," Jimmy murmured to Thomas, fighting back laughter. Thomas looked at him out of the corner of his eye for a moment, before finding his best, most neutral professional expression. He cleared his throat, and held up his hands to the assembled people, waiting until silence had fallen, before launching in to his opening speech.

Afterwards, Edna and Alfred guided everyone through Lily Jones' life, and there were photographs, followed by refreshments. Daisy had militated for scones and jam ("A taste of Downton. _You _said.") and she and Ivy circulated with trays.

"Well, you must be pleased," Anna said with a smile. "I know you and Thomas put a lot of work into this."

"Much as I hate to say it, it was very informative," Mr Bates told him, with a smile. "You can even tell Thomas I said that."

Internally Jimmy rolled his eyes. He'd lost Thomas sometime during the tour, but surely things were winding down, and soon they could pack up and head for the pub, where they could discuss every overheard comment, compliment or dig. Jimmy glanced at his watch and scanned the room again.

"Still looks like the old saying is true," Mr Bates said in a low, significant voice to Anna, and Jimmy pricked up his ears. "Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it."

He nodded over at the door, through which the Duke had just slipped – followed only a few seconds afterwards by Thomas.

It felt as if Jimmy's stomach hit the floor with a slap. Because it was so _obvious _– Thomas and the Duke didn't even look at each other as they parted, and Thomas moved neatly through the crowd, but there was something in his _face (_a trace of a self-satisfied look) something in the way he walked (with the barest hint of a suppressed swagger), that told Jimmy exactly what had happened.

No bloody wonder Mr Bates had always known what Thomas had been up to as a tour guide, Jimmy thought bitterly. Thomas might as well have rented advertising space and broadcast his inappropriate behaviour.

He fought to keep his face somewhat under control as Thomas made his way over. He asked Anna and Mr Bates, "Enjoy the show?"

"Yes," Anna said kindly. "We were just telling Jimmy how much."

Thomas looked at him then, and half-smiled. Jimmy bit his tongue and thought, _If you want to __show__ everybody and make them respect you, then maybe you should control yourself __for __once__, and not bloody well do what everyone bloody well expects you to. _

He looked away. There was a kind of roaring in his chest, and it felt to him, suddenly, as if the whole evening was ruined. They'd worked so hard, both of them – they'd worked on this _together_, and now it felt like Thomas had thrown all that away for a shag (or – or _whatever)_ in some dark corner.

He wondered if Thomas had pulled the Duke into the same room he'd kissed Jimmy in.

"Are you all right, Jimmy?" Anna asked.

"I'm fine," he said tightly. It felt like he didn't have any blood in his face. He noted absently that the room was beginning to clear, and clenched his teeth as the Duke set a course towards them.

He aimed one of those indifferent smiles at Anna and Mr Bates, before saying to Thomas, "I very much enjoyed your tour. Most entertaining." He leaned in a little closer and said, "You must allow me to buy you a drink to celebrate."

"Well, I won't say no to that," Thomas said, and Jimmy stared at him for a second, feeling completely betrayed.

It was _stupid, _because he'd never actually made his plans _with _Thomas – he'd decided on raising the subject casually after the exhibition, as if it had just occurred to him, a spur of the moment invitation that Thomas would, of course, accept – because why wouldn't he?

It still felt as bad as a deliberate, outright rejection to Jimmy, for some irrational reason.

_It doesn't matter, _he told himself. _It's all ruined anyway._

Thomas, of course, hadn't received that particular memo, because he immediately turned to Jimmy and asked, "D'you want to join us, Jimmy?"

Jimmy said, far too abruptly, "No. I'm going home."


	18. Chapter 18

I just wanted to say thank you so very much to everyone who has read and commented so far - I really appreciate it. And I swear this thing is going somewhere, just...very slowly :)

* * *

The next morning, for the first time since they'd become friends, Jimmy did not bring Thomas a cup of coffee.

"If you ask me, you could use both," Mrs Patmore said, as she handed over Jimmy's solitary cup. She had been confused by the sudden change in his order. "You look like the dead."

Clearly, customer service was not _The Downton Café's _strongest suit, Jimmy thought sourly. He ignored her, and gave his money to Daisy, who was busily sharing her perspective on last night, "– obviously, the strawberry was the most popular, but loads of people tried the blackberry or plum as well…and they really seemed to like them!"

"Now _there's _a surprise," Jimmy said. "Because nobody's ever liked _scones and jam _before."

"Well, _someone's _in a lovely mood this morning," Mrs Patmore said, raising her eyebrows. "How lucky for us."

"What's wrong with you?" Daisy asked, as she handed over his change.

"Nothing's wrong," Jimmy said, and he marched back to the office with his one cup of coffee.

Thomas didn't even seem to notice. When Jimmy walked in, his face did that same thing it always did – a split second flicker of awareness, like a match being struck – before subsiding into its usual dispassionate expression. But this time there was some kind of _energy _or something underlying it, completely contradicting his surface composure.

_You are as transparent as a pane of fucking __glass__, _Jimmy thought and set his coffee down decisively on his table, like a declaration of war.

Unaware, Thomas said, "Good morning," satisfaction curling through his voice.

Jimmy didn't dignify that with a response, just pulled out his chair and switched on his computer.

"What's wrong with you?" He could hear the frown in Thomas' words. Good.

"Nothing," he said, and continued, as if he were loading each word into a cannon, "Good night last night?"

"All right," Thomas said warily. "Are you sure _you're _all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Jimmy began to type, hitting each key with force.

"I don't know – that's why I'm asking," Thomas said. He tilted his head to the side, assessing Jimmy. "Is something the matter, or did you just get out of bed on the wrong side this morning?" He still had that faint air of satisfaction, like he'd got away with something.

Rage bubbled up in Jimmy like an erupting volcano, and he couldn't stop himself from murmuring to his computer screen, "Well, at least I got up on the wrong side of _my own _bed." _Thomas, _on the other hand, had rolled out of the wrong _bed _altogether.

Or maybe he'd brought the Duke to his place, to _his_ bed. Jimmy hit the delete button again and again, erasing everything he'd just typed.

Thomas stared at him. "What?" Jimmy noted that the satisfaction in Thomas' voice had been replaced by confusion. _Better. _"Is – did something happen last night? Because it all seemed to go off fairly well, from where I was standing" –

Jimmy let out a short derisive sound.

"_So_," Thomas continued deliberately, as if he hadn't just been interrupted, "I don't see what you could have to complain about."

"Oh yes," Jimmy agreed with a kind of grim cheer. "It all went off very well. It's just a shame that instead of the _exhibition, _all anyone's talking about is you shagging that bloke in some dark corner," he finished, and met Thomas' eyes boldly. Releasing his anger felt like freewheeling down a hill – there was a kind of terrifying exhilaration in it.

Thomas' mouth opened, and then shut.

_Yes. I know __exactly__ what you did,_ Jimmy thought. _Not so fucking __covert__ as you imagine, are you, Thomas? _

"I don't think _everyone's _talking about it," Thomas finally managed.

Jimmy laughed and shook his head, because far be it from _Thomas_ to ever admit he'd messed up spectacularly. "You know what I think?"

"I have a feeling I'm going to," Thomas muttered.

"_I_ _think _that if you want people to look at you differently, you should _act differently. _I think, if you don't want people to hold things over you, you should stop _giving them things to hold over you_._" _

"Are you done?" Thomas asked, with studied indifference, that didn't mask his chagrin. Jimmy felt a vicious twist of gratification – but it didn't slow him down. He wanted to keep going until Thomas felt the same way _he'd _felt last night. He wanted to knock Thomas' feet from under him.

"Not really," he said. "Did you bring him to that room? The one with the clock?" He couldn't ask, though he'd spent last night being eaten alive by the question – so he threw it in Thomas' face as an accusation. "Is that your regular place, then? I hope you put a '_do not disturb'_ sign on the door at least."

He took a breath, and aimed his final blow with as much judgmental distaste as he could summon up, "I just don't see why you have to be so _obvious."_

However, instead of being stunned into shamefaced silence –

"Maybe it's because I _am_ obvious," Thomas snapped back. "Because that's _who I am – _or had you forgotten? I'm sorry it makes you so _uncomfortable._"

His words were drenched in icy sarcasm, and Jimmy gaped. "It's not about the – the _gay _thing."

"No? Because it's not like you've ever got upset about that before," Thomas said coolly, folding his arms over his chest. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. What _is _it about then, can I ask?"

It was _unbelievable. _Thomas was the one who'd acted in that inappropriate, _intolerable _way – and somehow, _Jimmy_ was the one searching for an explanation. Well, he wasn't going to let Thomas turn it around, to make this about _him. _This was about Thomas' appalling, unbearable behaviour. It had nothing to do with Jimmy at all.

"It's _not _about the gay thing," Jimmy stressed again. "It's like – how would _you _feel if Ivy and Daisy just nipped off somewhere for a quick shag – while they're supposed to be working?"

Thomas was silent. "I wouldn't much care for it," he said eventually.

"Exactl" –

"I mean, it'd be unsanitary, wouldn't it – with both of them responsible for handling food," he mused.

Jimmy slammed his hands down hard on the table. "_It's not funny."_

Some coffee spilled over the lip of Jimmy's still-full cup with the force of his slap. Thomas stared for a long moment at it, lips pulling into a straight line, before he said, "Apparently not."

They both sat at their desks and didn't speak. Jimmy typed blindly, though he kept having to hit the delete key whenever he re-read his work. The sound of Thomas' pen scratching over paper was bizarrely loud, and scraped against Jimmy's nerves.

He felt _wronged. _What Thomas had done was stupid and careless, and no matter how Thomas tried to twist it, he _owed_ Jimmy something for that. An explanation. An _apology. _Because they were friends now, as well as colleagues, and Thomas wasn't supposed to be careless with _him_.

When Thomas needed a book from the shelf, Jimmy stood, but didn't press himself back into the corner, as he usually did, to minimize the awkwardness. Instead, he almost pushed forward, so that Thomas' body slid directly against his as he reached for the book, and again as Thomas pulled back. Jimmy stared straight at Thomas the entire time, hard-eyed and unblinking, until finally, Thomas' gaze locked with his for one brief moment. _Try to ignore me now,_ Jimmy thought, heart thumping. _Try to ignore me now._

Except – that seemed to be exactly Thomas' plan. Because after that disorienting second of eye-contact, he stepped away and moved back to his desk, where he began to leaf through his book.

The sound of pages slowly being turned made Jimmy grit his teeth – but maybe Thomas hadn't been as unaffected as he pretended, after all, because after a few minutes, he said, in a low voice, "I'm not your pet queer."

Jimmy's eyes flew to his, but he continued, "And I'm not going to stop living my life just because it might make you uncomfortable."

This time, Thomas was the one who maintained eye-contact, and it was Jimmy who desperately wanted to look away. He forced himself not to, though, and when he spoke, it was in the same calm tone Thomas had taken. "Well, maybe next time, you might make sure that while you're 'living your life', you won't get done for public indecency."

They held each other's gaze for a few more seconds, before almost as one, they turned back to their work. It felt as if the tension building in the air had defused, somewhat, and Jimmy was able to breathe easier. At the same time…even though it seemed like they'd reached a sort of compromise – it didn't feel like they'd _resolved _anything.

Jimmy had said how he'd felt to Thomas – and yet, he didn't feel as if he'd explained it _properly, _because surely, if Thomas could _understand _the gut-twisting unpleasantness he'd caused Jimmy last night, then even _Thomas _would have to admit that Jimmy was right. This stupid _living-my-life_ idea wouldn't ever come into it.

Maybe after work, Jimmy thought. They could go somewhere…or stay in the office, and after they'd chatted for a bit, Jimmy could bring the subject up again, and they could discuss it calmly. _Properly. _

_Yes_. He caught himself just before he nodded at his computer screen.

Just then, there was a knock on the office door, which opened to reveal…

"Hello," the Duke said. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" Of course, he'd already stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, so the question was clearly a formality.

"I like your office, Thomas," he said, looking around. "Rather cramped…but the décor," his eyes glanced idly over the bookshelves – and Jimmy, " – makes up for it." Jimmy found his fingers curling into his palms involuntarily.

Thomas had half-risen from his chair at the sight of the Duke, clearly startled. "Philip. What are you doing here?" he asked.

The Duke smiled that small smile, perfectly composed. "Paying a visit to Downton, of course. Do you know…it struck me last night, that I don't think I've fully explored all of its charms." He looked at Thomas. "I was hoping we might remedy that."

It was so…arch, and yet _blatant _at the same time – Jimmy felt revolted.

The Duke raised his eyebrows. "What do you say? I find myself in _desperate _need of a tour guide."

Jimmy remembered – _if we're all assembled…the entrance hall is dominated by the Great Oak…fifth Earl died just weeks later…you'll miss the best part – _and had to turn his head away. He stared unseeing at the books on the shelves.

He didn't know if Thomas actually _looked _at him, but Jimmy felt aware of his attention all the same. Thomas cleared his throat and said, carefully, "I haven't played tour guide in a while."

"Then it's quite settled," the Duke told him. "I want to learn more, and the last thing you want to do is _forget_. I should so hate for you to get rusty – you were quite the expert on the subject, as I recall."

Jimmy found he couldn't force himself to contemplate the bookshelf any longer, and his gaze swung between the Duke and Thomas. The Duke regarded Thomas with languid brown eyes and a pleasant expression that only barely disguised the _alertness _underneath. He tilted his head to the side, amused. "Or are you just too tame for that sort of thing, nowadays?"

"Jimmy," Thomas said, without looking at him. "I'm going for my lunch. If there are any calls, you can let me know when I get back."

The Duke smiled.

* * *

Maybe Thomas had a point – maybe the gay thing did bother Jimmy, at least a little, because when he came back (twenty minutes later than usual), and Jimmy asked, twisting the last word unpleasantly, "How was lunch?"

Thomas looked at him for so long that Jimmy began to feel uncomfortable, then said, "Fine. A bit dry – and I don't know if you can call the Chicken Surprise a _surprise _after it's been served three times the same week, but…" he shrugged.

Jimmy didn't say anything.

"You can ask _Daisy_, if you want to check my alibi. Just lunch, no public indecency. Like you asked."

But oddly, this was not the reassurance it should have been. Actually, the thought of Thomas and the Duke at a table in _The Downton Café _was very nearly as repellant as last night had been. Not _quite – _imagining Thomas and the Duke in that darkened room, Thomas leaning in with that open look on his face, lips parted, and the Duke accepting it with that languorous entitlement, like it was somehow his _due…_

…well, that was still worse. But Thomas and the Duke sitting and eating together – like they _enjoyed each other's company, _like last night _mattered _to them…it made something deep inside Jimmy contract, roll up as small as it could.

"He's sticking around, I take it?" Jimmy asked, striving for disinterest. "The Duke. Philip."

"For a while," Thomas acknowledged. Chin up and eyes hard, he asked, "That won't be a problem…will it?"

"Of course not. Why would it be a problem?" Jimmy said, through the tightness in his chest.


	19. Chapter 19

" – the same thing _again_ today," Jimmy said, concluding with a vicious stab of his fork at a wayward pea. "Just showed up out of the blue and _waited, _until Thomas left. Early. Again." Jimmy had almost completely stopped referring to Thomas as Mr Barrow, at work or at home, as a sort of retaliation for the Duke's casual usage of Thomas' first name. Conversely, he refrained from using the Duke's name as much as possible.

"That's interesting," Ivy said flatly, "D'you know, I think I could listen to that same story for the rest of my life. I feel like I already _am."_

Jimmy scowled at her. "Well, tell _him _to stop doing it, and then I can stop talking about it."

"Id've thought you'd be pleased Mr Barrow has a boyfriend," Alfred said.

"He's not his _boyfriend." _The denial was instinctive.

"Well, he's his _something,_" Alfred pointed out. "I mean, they're always together" –

Jimmy stabbed another pea. "That's my _point_," he said. "Thomas is always leaving early, or coming in late, and _he's _always around."

"So? Y'know, Jimmy," Ivy said sanctimoniously, as she got to her feet, dinner plate in hand, "Gay people have rights too."

Jimmy stared at her. "D'you mean the right to be a complete tosser? Just because he's gay, doesn't mean he can't be _annoying."_

Ivy rolled her eyes, but was prevented from replying by a sudden buzzing from her mobile. She answered it with a bright, "Hi, Alan!" and set her plate down on the table again. She wandered off into the sitting room, followed by the longing eyes of Alfred.

"_Alan_," he said, with a sigh of distaste, and began to clear the table. A simple request for Ivy to pick up some chicken breasts had led instead to her picking up Alan, the local butcher. Peter-the-History-teacher had summarily been discarded like a piece of expired steak. Alfred had made some dark noises about turning vegetarian.

"And he's got this way of talking, like he's making fun of you, but you're too stupid to realize it," Jimmy said, returning to the more pressing subject of the Duke.

"Hmm, oh…I suppose that'd be annoying, all right," Alfred seemed marginally more sympathetic than Ivy. "Still, it's not all bad, is it? You should just look on the bright side," he said, as he stacked the plates.

"And what's that?" Jimmy asked. To him, this thing seemed entirely devoid of 'bright side', like a room with black-out blinds.

"At least it means that Mr Barrow's finally over you."

It felt like Alfred had neatly kicked his legs out from under him. "What?"

"It stands to reason, doesn't it? If Mr Barrow has a boyfriend, then it means he must've got over _you_."

"He's _not_ his boyfriend," Jimmy corrected again.

"Well, whatever he is, it's a step in the right direction for Mr Barrow, isn't it?"

Jimmy forced down his immediate impulse to deny the possibility of the Duke being a right _anything – _with the exception of 'git', 'wanker' or, as aforementioned, 'tosser.' "I suppose I never thought of it like that," he said slowly. The idea of Thomas not wanting him was…strange. Thomas had _always _wanted him, from the second they'd met, even if Jimmy'd only become aware of that fact in retrospect.

"It's what people do, though, isn't it?" Alfred said, quite reasonably. "When they can't have the person they want, they find someone else they _can _have."

"Oh yes, and you're the expert on that," Jimmy said nastily, still unsettled by Alfred's read on the situation. "How are you getting on with Ivy, these days?"

Alfred sort of flinched, but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he said, with a kind of wounded dignity, "I would have thought you'd be glad for Mr Barrow."

* * *

_Thomas doesn't want me, _Jimmy consciously thought the next morning, as Thomas looked up from his desk and greeted him. He smiled back and said good morning.

_Thomas doesn't want me, _he told himself when Thomas pulled his chair over to Jimmy's table so that they could discuss liaising with the local schools to promote the new exhibition. He adjusted his chair, and his knee bumped against Thomas'.

And – _Thomas doesn't want me, _he reminded himself when he came back from lunch to find Thomas already gone. The thought seemed to echo in the empty space. These days, Jimmy was always the last one out of the office, and there weren't any card games, or post-workday conversations. Just Jimmy, trudging in silence down the hallways and out to the staff carpark.

It wasn't necessarily that it was hard to believe that Thomas didn't want him anymore, especially with Thomas pulling his disappearing act at every opportunity – just…Jimmy found it impossible to _remember, _for some reason_. _He had to keep reminding himself over and over, and as soon as he let his mind wander even slightly from that thought, it slipped away, and he had to start all over again.

* * *

Late at night, Jimmy restlessly turned it over and over in his mind, like a stone. Thomas not wanting him anymore. Thomas moving on.

It was unsettling. Thomas had _always _wanted him, and even if he'd been disturbed by that at first…he was almost _more _disturbed to find that it might not be true anymore. As awkward as it had been, it was also…comforting – to know that he mattered so much to Thomas.

He turned on to his side in his bed. _It's what people do, though, isn't it? _Alfred whispered into his ear, and irritably, he adjusted his pillow.

It wasn't that he wanted Thomas to be _unhappy. _He – liked Thomas. Thomas – mattered to him, too. Of _course _he wanted Thomas to be happy.

_When they can't have the person they want, they find someone else they can have,_ Alfred reminded him. Jimmy turned onto his back and wished Alfred would just _shut up_.

He just – he didn't see _why _wanting Thomas to be happy had to mean _this, _was all. Thomas had been happy before the Duke, hadn't he? When it had just been him and Jimmy, playing cards or smuggling ancient, incontinent dogs out of Downton?

He stared up at the ceiling. Probably, he allowed, Thomas hadn't been _perfectly _happy – but who _was? _Happiness was happiness, regardless of degree.

_I would have thought you'd be glad for Mr Barrow, _Alfred said reproachfully.

Jimmy made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat and covered his face with his pillow.

* * *

After a sleepless night, Alfred's voice had finally beaten him down with its gingery determination, and Jimmy decided to be glad for Thomas.

It did not take.

It was just the way the Duke kept 'popping in'. "I happened to have a free moment," he said sometimes. (Jimmy wished he would stop flicking his 'free moments' at Thomas as if they were dog treats).

Or, "I have the strangest urge to go exploring – shall we see if we can get lost for while?" ("I wish _you _would," Jimmy muttered to himself).

Or, "Hullo." (It was the _way_ he said it).

And he lounged in the doorframe, or looked over Thomas' shoulder at his work, and ignored the fact that Jimmy was _right there, _and whenever Thomas demurred an invitation, or made noise about having work to do, he said, "Oh, don't be tiresome, Thomas," and leaned in until his mouth brushed Thomas' ear and said, so low Jimmy could barely hear it, "_Roman Holiday, _remember?"

The only thing worse than the way this was clearly an in-joke with high, barbed-wire walls that Jimmy couldn't hope to scale, was that even though Thomas murmured dismissive things like, "Must be the budget version, then," or "Which one of us would get his hand bitten off, d'you think?" he always ended up setting down his work and vanishing off somewhere with _him. _

Really, Jimmy found that hating the Duke just saved _time._

* * *

"Cheer up," Mrs Patmore said bracingly, as she ladled his soup into a bowl. "It might never happen!"

Moodily, Jimmy paid and bit back the urge to inform her that _it already had_. He sat across from Alfred, who was likewise listlessly stirring his vegetable soup.

Conversation was desultory, and revolved around their grievances.

" – probably have to finish the school schedules myself now," Jimmy said. "And there's all these people ringing to talk to Thomas about setting up a heritage week, and I have to keep fobbing them off. All because of _him._"

"A _picnic," _Alfred said morosely. It was Ivy's day off, and Alan had swooped her away in his van for a romantic trip. "And I _saw _what he had in that bag – a six pack of crisps and lemonade – not so much as a devilled egg. It's like he didn't put any effort in at all."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Daisy said, pausing as she swept the floor. "I can't see him lasting long."

Alfred brightened, "You can't?" but Daisy fixed him with a withering stare and said, "I was talking to Jimmy."

"What d'you mean?" Jimmy asked, ears pricking up.

"I think it's just, you know" – Daisy made a strange, indeterminate motion with her free hand, and lowered her voice, " – _physical._"

Jimmy's soup suddenly didn't look so appetizing.

"Besides" – Daisy shrugged, "I don't know…after last time, I can't see it working out. Not long-term, like."

Jimmy opened his mouth to ask about _last time, _but Alfred galumphed in first. "Daisy, I was wondering…" she looked at him warily, "…just – if Ivy might've said anything. About Alan. If it's serious, or – anything. Anything at all."

Daisy straightened, appearing to grow several inches and said, immediately, "No. She didn't. And even if she _had, _I wouldn't tell you!"

"What?" Alfred said, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

Jimmy began, "When you said, 'last time', what did" –

"I'm sick of it!" Daisy said, ignoring him in favour of brandishing the sweeping brush at Alfred, looking rather like a downtrodden avenging angel, "I really am! All you do is sit here and _complain, _and I'm _tired of it. _Stop mooning about and – and _do _something!"

"Like what?" Alfred asked.

Jimmy cleared his throat, "All right. But when you said, 'last time'" –

"Try something else! Anything! And if you can't think of something, then, well…you've got the use of your limbs – you can concentrate on your _work!" _

With that, Daisy whirled around and marched into the kitchen, leaving a gaping Alfred behind her.

"Well said, Daisy," Mrs Patmore said as she passed, sounding somewhat taken aback. She turned to Jimmy and Alfred. "D'you know, for once, I don't think I have a single thing to add to that."

* * *

Despite the fact that what Daisy said had nothing to do with him, Jimmy found himself reinvigorated by her words. So, that evening, a quarter of an hour before closing time, and on the cusp of finally finishing the schools schedule, when the Duke appeared and Thomas made to gather himself and leave, Jimmy found himself saying, "I was hoping we might finish this, first."

Thomas hesitated, and the Duke raised his eyebrows.

"I mean," Jimmy continued, "It's only going to take an extra half hour or so." He smiled an inoffensive smile. It hurt his face. It felt like begging, in a strange way, and he hated it. "And it'd be good to get it done."

Thomas looked at him for a moment, seeming almost unsure of himself. There was a small line in between his eyebrows. "Well, if you want, I s'pose I could" – he said eventually, but the Duke interrupted and said, "Except that I've made reservations for us, and we really ought to get going."

"Well, maybe next time you could make your reservations for _after_ work," Jimmy said, forcing himself to sound pleasant, instead of snide. When the Duke cast his eyes at him, Jimmy hoped the expression on his face looked helpful. But from the tilt of the Duke's head, he doubted it.

"I didn't suppose an extra fifteen minutes would make much difference," the Duke said. He turned back to Thomas, a slight, patronising smile on his face, "And really – _does _it?"

"We could finish the schedule," Jimmy reminded him, through gritted teeth. "Thomas" – he began, but trailed off, because what else could he say? _Please stay? I want you to? You staying an extra fifteen minutes makes a difference to __me__? _It sounded ridiculously overblown. He couldn't say something like that with the Duke standing right there. He couldn't have said it even if the Duke _wasn't _there.

"It…might be good to have it sorted," Thomas said slowly. It sounded as if the words were being pulled out of him, one at a time, half against his will. His eyes never left Jimmy's, and Jimmy's heart gave a funny, hopeful jump.

The Duke chuckled. It made Thomas start, and broke the connection between him and Jimmy. "How very dedicated you are, Thomas," he said, and he didn't seem annoyed at all, more warmly amused. "I do hope Downton will be properly…appreciative. Do you get overtime? I can only imagine how disheartening it would be to invest so much _effort_…and have nothing to show for it in the end."

This time, it was the Duke's turn to hold Thomas' gaze. Jimmy kept glancing between them. In spite of the unrelenting pleasantness of his face, and how casually the Duke tossed the words out, there was something hidden just below the surface, something that made Thomas' mouth go tight.

"Though," the Duke went on, "Perhaps you're more charitable than I give you credit for. The Thomas _I_ knew wasn't the sort to waste his time – but then I suppose the old saying is true…it makes fools of us all, in the end. Or…some of us, at least."

His voice lingered on the word 'fools' and he raised one eyebrow very slightly, almost challengingly. Thomas stood unmoving for a moment, before he turned back to Jimmy, whose fingers had curled into fists in anticipation of the blow, and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, Jimmy."

"Right," Jimmy said tightly, and, as they walked out of the office, frustration made him raise his voice and call out, "I'll just finish this all myself then, will I?"

Thomas paused at the door, then turned his head and said, with a cool sweep of his eyes, "If you would, James," and left.

* * *

And so, later that night, after a thoroughly unsatisfying dinner ("God, Jimmy, change the record, won't you?") Jimmy found himself lying in bed and thinking about Thomas.

It was getting to be something of a habit.

The thing was, the _thing _was…Jimmy didn't see why, even if Thomas _was _with – _him (_not boyfriends, but _whatever)…_Jimmy didn't see that it had to change things between himself and Thomas.

_I think it's just, you know – __physical,_ Daisy helpfully told him – and it was _annoying_ – wasn't it enough that he had to listen to these people during the day, without them barging in at night as well?

Still, if this thing Thomas had with the Duke was just _– physical, _Daisy repeated, and Jimmy shook his head in irritation…but if it _was, _then shouldn't there be _some _part of Thomas left for Jimmy? If _Jimmy_ were with someone, he wouldn't stop talking to Thomas, or spending time with him. So why would Thomas?

There were only two reasons Jimmy could think of to account for Thomas' behaviour. The first was that it was more than just – _physical_ between he and the Duke. That it was _serious. _

This reason stopped him dead in his tracks – it was like coming to the edge of a cliff…he couldn't think any further, and something like panic made him retreat from the idea as quickly as he could.

The second reason was, that it _was_ just – _physical – _between Thomas and the Duke, but that the _physical part _was so _good…_that it made everything else just not matter anymore.

While it didn't induce the same blank dread as the first scenario, that didn't mean that Jimmy was _comfortable _with the thought. He didn't _like_ it, even if it was the lesser of two evils.…still, he kept returning to it, poking at the idea like a bruise.

Thomas _wanting _someone…someone else…more than he wanted Jimmy. Wanting someone else so much that Jimmy ceased to _matter _to him…Jimmy couldn't understand it, but he kept trying. He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Thomas' expression, that night in the darkened room at Downton, how shamelessly _open_ his face had been, the way Jimmy could read desire in every feature. It had shocked Jimmy then, and even now, it made something jump down low in his stomach.

_Yes_, he supposed, he could see Thomas undone by _that_ kind of _want. _Though, the idea of Thomas directing that _want _at the Duke made him feel an almost physical revulsion. Absently, he touched his fingers to his jaw, the way Thomas had after he'd kissed him. It was such a small touch – obviously he'd done far more with the _Duke_. How was Jimmy supposed to _understand _it, if he didn't _know _what it felt like for Thomas_?_

He let out an irritated sound and dropped his hand to rest on his chest. It lay there, oddly heavy…almost as if it were someone else's hand.

He breathed in sharply. His legs twisted in the sheets. Jimmy closed his eyes, and pressed his lips together. Then slowly, he let his hand move lower.


	20. Chapter 20

Hey :) I feel like I should apologise to Ana-from-Portugal, because this chapter is late (and after you were so kind in your comment and mentioned my quick posting, only for me to drop the schedule in the very next chapter!). I didn't want to post until I hit a certain point, because otherwise I thought it read like the story wasn't going anywhere :) So I'm sorry, Ana - and I hope the fact that this chapter is longer than usual makes up for it a bit.

Oh - also, I'm thinking about changing the rating on this story in a chapter or two, so it might be in the M section. More for safety than anything...I'm not wildly confident in my smut-writing capabilities, but it's been 20 chapters of sexual frustration for Thomas and Jimmy, so I figure I may have to have to make an attempt, at least :) Just in case this story seems to disappear/not update anymore and anyone is wondering about it.

* * *

Well, _that_ was the explanation. Thomas' sudden, brutal withdrawal, his early departures from work, the way he couldn't wait to spend all his free time with an unmitigated prat…

…it was due to an intense, but _purely physical,_ reaction. Jimmy had…well, he'd proved that.

In a way.

He'd put himself in Thomas' position…well, not _exactly, _as that would have required him to be facing the _Duke_, and Jimmy _would rather die_.

Maybe it would be more accurate to say that he'd put himself in a position _similar _to Thomas'…a position _next to _or _opposite _Thomas, even (well, he wasn't going to imagine the _Duke's _touch, was he?). And he'd taken himself in hand and – and proved that it was possible for Thomas to react in a purely physical way to that kind of stimulus. It was _understandable. _Jimmy himself had felt swept away, shaky-legged and short of breath…and he'd only been feeling it secondhand, in a purely academic capacity.

The Duke wasn't _special. _He was just the nearest available warm body.

Well…technically _Jimmy _was the nearest available warm body, since he and Thomas were working in such close quarters, but Thomas had already _tried _that. Looking at it that way, the Duke wasn't even Thomas' first choice.

So all _Jimmy _had to do was be patient, because Thomas' purely physical attraction to the Duke was going to burn itself out sooner or later.

(Jimmy really hoped it would be _sooner, _but now that his fears were laid to rest, he was sanguine. He was just going to stay calm and wait this situation out).

* * *

Several hours later he grew impatient and accosted the Duke down the hallway from his and Thomas' office.

It was the way Thomas had looked at him that morning. There was nothing unusual in it – his eyes had flicked up to Jimmy and then back down at his work, but Jimmy had felt heat rising in his face, as if…as if he'd been really fantasizing about Thomas last night instead of – conducting an experiment.

And it _kept _happening. Every time Thomas made eye-contact, Jimmy's skin prickled with awareness, as if his gaze were a physical touch.

Worse – when Thomas jotted down some instructions about the possible Heritage Week, Jimmy found himself staring at his hands as he wrote – the shape of them, the length of his fingers, the way his right hand curled around the pen and moved smoothly across the paper, while his left remained flat on the desk – as if Thomas' hands had been the hands that touched Jimmy last night. As if Thomas' left hand had moved down to rest flat and warm against Jimmy's stomach, while his right had slid even further, to curl around –

And that was when Jimmy abruptly decided that the sooner Thomas' purely physical infatuation with the Duke ran its course, the sooner things could get back to normal.

Accordingly, he spent most of his lunch break lurking in the hallway, waiting for the Duke to show up. It was with an empty stomach, but a system galvanized by a sudden rush of adrenaline that Jimmy stepped forward, barring the Duke's way forward.

"Could I have a minute?" Jimmy asked, smoothing his voice into something approaching neutrality.

The Duke glanced briefly over Jimmy's shoulder, down the end of the hall at the office door, then refocused his attention on Jimmy. "Of course. Though I do hope this isn't about yesterday. No sense in beating a dead horse, is there?" He shrugged one unconcerned shoulder. "We had a lovely dinner, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Jimmy could feel his mouth working, and he tried to force an answering smile to crawl across his face.

"It's not about yesterday," he said. "Actually, it's about making sure that something like that doesn't happen again."

"I'm all ears," the Duke said, with bland, insincere pleasantness.

Jimmy proffered the clipboard in his hands – it was a kind of prop, declaring his impartial professionalism.

The Duke took it.

"It's – Thomas has been spending a lot of time with you lately," Jimmy said. He tried to not to phrase it as an accusation.

"You don't need to tell me," the Duke said. "It hadn't escaped my attention. I _was_ there, after all."

Jimmy gritted his teeth and continued. "But, unfortunately, Thomas does have other priorities" –

"Oh?" The Duke looked him up and down, and Jimmy tried not to squirm. "Really? Because those…_priorities_…have never seemed to trouble Thomas unduly before. I must say, I never would have known."

"Well, I thought I'd make it easy for you," Jimmy said, ignoring his words and returning the Duke's twofaced smile with interest. "I've made out a timetable – if you'd like to fill in your preferred slot, then" –

The Duke interrupted, "You want me to _schedule _my time with Thomas?"

Jimmy aimed his most attentive, helpful expression the Duke's way, and selected his words with the kind of careless precision the Duke himself used. "I'd just like to make sure that Thomas can give you exactly the amount of time you deserve."

The reaction was not what Jimmy had hoped. The Duke stared down at the ground, suppressing a smirk – only not really, because it was still lingering at the corners of his mouth when he looked up again.

"I'm sorry," he said, "But I really can't see myself taking orders from anyone, let alone a jumped-up little PA. No offence."

He handed the clipboard back to Jimmy and leaned in close. "You needn't worry though – I promise to return Thomas when I'm done with him, good as…well, _nearly _new." Then he added, with liquidly sincere brown eyes, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe your minute is up. And I know how important correct time-keeping is to you."

And with that, he brushed past Jimmy.

* * *

The good thing was, everyone else seemed to agree with Jimmy that the Duke was bad news. It wasn't like Jimmy was _biased_, or anything.

Daisy had mentioned 'last time' and how unlikely a lasting relationship between Thomas and the Duke would be. However, when he quizzed her further, she said things like, "I don't know…it seems a bit mean, bringing all that up again."

"Bringing all _what _up again?" Jimmy asked, chasing after her as she brought a tray to two women who sat twittering in a corner about Jane Austen. As she unloaded the plate of scones, they stopped and smiled at her, and with a furtive glance back to where Mrs Patmore was wiping down the counter, she said, "I hope you enjoy it – and remember, the jam is a specialty. You can't get it anywhere but here. It's a little taste of Downton" –

"Daisy!" Mrs Patmore called.

" - and it's available in our gift shop," Daisy finished hastily, before scuttling off.

"Alfred got you playing salesgirl?" Jimmy asked, as he followed her back.

She stopped and said, irritation clear on her face, "_No_, he hasn't. We're _partners, _remember? And that means half the business _and_ half the profits go to me. So I'm acting in my own best interest, for a change!"

"All right, all right," Jimmy said, holding up both hands. "I don't blame you."

"Sorry, it's just…I get sick of it, sometimes." Absently, Daisy began to rearrange the cream slices in the freezer. "I know it's never going to happen, and Alfred don't think of me like that, but…all the same, it's not _funny."_

"I know what you mean," Jimmy said with feeling.

"Y'do?" Daisy seemed disbelieving.

"Of course I do. I mean, look at this thing with the Duke and Thomas."

"I don't see how that's the same," she said, frowning. "I mean, nobody's pining there, are they?"

"Well, no," Jimmy had to admit, "But _I'm_ sick of it." He examined Daisy closely as he said, "And it's not funny…not after what happened last time."

"But you don't even know about that," Daisy said.

"You could tell me. Then I'd know," he pointed out quite reasonably.

Serving tongs in hand, Daisy looked indecisive. "I don't think Thomas would like me talking about it. _I'm_ not even supposed to know."

Jimmy opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs Patmore bustled up. "Daisy, there are tables waiting to be cleaned."

With an apologetic look, Daisy scampered off.

"As for you," Mrs Patmore turned to Jimmy, "Might I remind you, that this is a _café_? If you have a problem that needs solving, then go write to an agony aunt. If you want to stay _here_, buy a bun."

His lunchbreak was almost over, anyway. So there really wasn't any explanation for why Jimmy found himself veering away from the familiar path back to the office. _Thomas _had been late often enough, Jimmy told himself – so _he_ certainly deserved a slightly extended lunch break.

(He did not think about Thomas' hands at all).

Anna and Mr Bates, like Daisy, were no great fans of the Duke, though just as annoying vague with their complaints.

"My mother always said, 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all,'" Anna said, "And I have nothing to say about him."

"I thought your mother always said, 'If you can't say anything nice, come sit by me,'?" Mr Bates teased her.

Anna smiled at him, before addressing Jimmy. "Still, I will warn you to watch your step around him – he's not a very nice person."

"I'd go further than that," Mr Bates said. "He's a nasty piece of work, a disagreeable, spiteful, malicious sort – all in all, a thoroughly unpleasant character."

Jimmy was about to pursue this promising vein of inquiry, when Mr Bates added, sounding amused, "Seems like a match made in heaven to me."

Jimmy bit moodily into his bun.

* * *

Later, he stared up at his bedroom ceiling. With every day that passed, he told himself, he was a day closer to the end of this _purely physical _thing between Thomas and the Duke.

He just hoped that _every_-day-that-passed wasn't going to be like _this_ one. _Those…priorities…have never seemed to trouble Thomas unduly before, _the Duke drawled, and Jimmy clenched his jaw. Not that that made any difference to the smug voice in his head. _ I must say, I never would have known._

Alfred and Daisy had been bad enough – but the _Duke_ was the very last person he wanted to share his nighttime hours with.

Unlike Thomas, who was probably in bed with him right now. _Burning away his purely physical infatuation, _Jimmy reminded himself, but it didn't help. He kicked at his sheets. It was too hot.

He wondered if Thomas was touching the Duke, and to settle the coil of unease he felt, he let his left hand rest, flat, on his stomach.

_Those…priorities…have never seemed to trouble Thomas unduly before._

Thomas didn't talk about him, then. Jimmy didn't mean _in bed _obviously – that would have been strange – but in general. As in, he clearly didn't make mention of Jimmy as a friend, even.

_I must say, I never would have known._

The Duke's words were like the click of a closing door, shutting him out of some private world inhabited only by Thomas and the Duke. As if the Duke shared something with Thomas that Jimmy didn't. _Couldn't. _

Except, Jimmy knew Thomas every bit as well as the Duke did. He knew every detail of Thomas' hands – the shape of them, and how they moved, and the way he held his cigarettes…right down to the way Thomas might touch someone, one hand stroking that person's stomach – exactly the way Jimmy was doing it now, sliding his hand up to his chest, only to move downwards again, touch warm and firm. While Thomas' other hand…Jimmy bit his lip and cupped himself between his legs with his right hand, the way Thomas would, curling his fingers around his hardness and touching himself slowly, with deliberation, like he _knew _Thomas would (because he knew_ Thomas_), until his whole body felt heavy and insistent, and his breath was coming fast.

A series of images flashed disjointedly through his head as his hand sped up – _Thomas looking him up and down that first day, the curious, open expression on his face when he'd kissed Jimmy, the way Thomas' hands moved as he wrote_…and Jimmy closed his eyes, and came with a muffled groan.

* * *

He knew better than to try Mr Carson. Jimmy had heard he had a weak heart…and he had no wish to discover whether Mr Carson _also_ had a weak stomach by bringing up the Duke. Besides, given Mr Carson's feelings toward both Jimmy _and_ Thomas, Jimmy knew he wouldn't get anything resembling satisfaction from him.

Though Jimmy did note that Mr Carson seemed to hold himself even more rigidly these days, as if the Duke's very presence was an assault that he refused to bow under.

Mrs Hughes was not especially forthcoming either, despite (or perhaps because of) her aforementioned soft spot for Thomas. Jimmy wasn't _overt _when he asked…and he didn't _ask _exactly…more tried to hint the conversation in the general direction of the Duke being a terrible person, and then casually angled for details on this shadowy _last time _that Daisy had mentioned.

"Do you not have enough work to do in the here and now, James, that you feel this sudden need to start nosing about in the past?" Mrs Hughes asked. "Because if you're at loose ends, I'm sure_ I _could find something for you to do."

Then she held out several sheets of paper and said, "As a matter of fact, you can give _these _to Thomas. They've been waiting on my desk for a few days – I haven't been able to get a hold of him."

"I don't know why you think _I'll_ have better luck," Jimmy muttered, though he still reached out for the sheets.

Mrs Hughes' eyes sharpened, and she pulled the papers back. "Or maybe we should _both _make sure Thomas gets them. It would probably be better if I spoke to him in person about these, anyway."

"If you can find him," Jimmy said, under his breath.

But as luck would have it, they _did _meet Thomas on their way to the office. Of course, he was with the Duke, who looked at Jimmy and then glanced away, a smile on his lips as if he knew a secret no one else did. Jimmy set his jaw and tried to ignore him.

"Ah, Thomas," Mrs Hughes said, pleasantly. "Just the person I was looking for. I wanted to give you these," she offered him the sheaf of paper, which Thomas immediately bent his head over.

"You've been making yourself scarce lately," Mrs Hughes noted, and the Duke immediately jumped in with, "Oh, I'm afraid that's entirely my fault. I've been monopolizing Thomas, I'm afraid."

"Yes," Mrs Hughes said calmly, then added, "That is…we've all noticed how much time you've been spending here lately."

Though Thomas didn't seem to take any particular notice of that comment, Jimmy thought he could sense a peculiarly intent stillness in him – like an animal hoping to avoid observation.

"Yes, well, I just happened to rediscover my appreciation for Downton – long overdue, some might say."

"Some might say it," Mrs Hughes agreed, though she left the impression that _she_ was not among them. "Still…you must have explored every nook and cranny by now" –

Jimmy was jolted from his horrified contemplation of Mrs Hughes' words, by the slight but obvious twitch of the papers in Thomas' hands.

The Duke seemed entirely unaffected however, and he merely smiled and said, "Thomas _has _been most thorough." His eyes flickered toward Jimmy. "As you might expect."

Then, with an elegant motion of his hands, the Duke continued, "You know, looking around at all Thomas has managed to accomplish here, I've been rather tempted to bring him home and introduce him to mother. Shake her up a bit."

Jimmy's heart began to pound in his ears, and he stared at Thomas, because this was a _purely physical _thing_, _it was _supposed_ to be a _purely physical _thing, and the Duke introducing Thomas to _his mother _did not fit within the parameters of purely physical at _all_. Thomas' head remained bent over the papers, and Jimmy willed him to look up.

"I take it your mother doesn't approve of your…lifestyle, then?" Mrs Hughes asked. She sounded at a slight loss for the first time in the conversation.

"Oh no, she's quite resigned to my lifestyle," the Duke said. "The _remodeling_ on the other hand…" he trailed off with a smirk.

Jimmy found he could breathe again.

Mrs Hughes looked steadily at the Duke. "My. It sounds quite serious between you."

"Does it? I don't know if _serious _is the word I'd use to characterize my time here."

"Oh? And how _would_ you characterize it then?" Mrs Hughes asked.

The Duke looked slightly annoyed, as if he hadn't expected the question. But Mrs Hughes just tilted her head, patiently awaiting an answer.

"I would say it's been…a pleasant interlude," he said finally.

"If you're quite done," Thomas interrupted dryly – though Jimmy wasn't sure who he was speaking to, Mrs Hughes or the Duke. He held out the papers. "I'm finished with these – and they look fine to me."

"Glad to hear it," Mrs Hughes said. And then, with the merest tinge of disapproval flavouring her voice, "And Thomas, in future, I hope I don't have to stalk the halls of Downton to arrange a meeting with you."

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs Hughes raised her eyebrows, and he closed his mouth again.

As she watched the two of them walk away, their retreating backs turning at the end of the corridor, Mrs Hughes said, "You know, James – sometimes Mr Carson is right. There are times when things are sent to try us." She shook her head a little. "Still…these situations usually have a way of working themselves out." She sighed, and almost to herself, added, "For better or worse."

Jimmy was not sure he wanted to know what 'worse' entailed.

* * *

In deference to the fact that it was now late autumn, the weather had cooled, but sometimes, inside the office, it felt like summer to Jimmy. The small space sweltered, dense with – with _something_, and he could hardly look at Thomas – whenever Jimmy tried, the air felt charged, like static electricity was building up and up, and his eyes only caught slivers of Thomas, like high-speed photographs – his hands, his shoulders, his mouth…

Thomas didn't seem to notice it. When he was even there, that was.

"I didn't sign on to work for the invisible man, you know," Jimmy said once. The words jumped out of his mouth without warning, while he was staring at his computer monitor. He hadn't meant to say anything at all.

There was a slight pause. Then, "Never knew you to be against skiving off before. _You_ were late back from lunch a few days ago," he pointed out.

"I'm surprised you noticed," Jimmy mumbled. He finally looked at Thomas, only to find Thomas' eyes were already on him – though Thomas immediately looked away, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't, before saying, "And you didn't seem to mind any of those times when we arsed about playing cards. I don't recall _that_ always starting on the dot of clocking off time."

A wave of – of _nostalgia _deluged Jimmy at the mention of those evenings spent with Thomas. They seemed a very long time ago, suddenly.

"That was different," he said.

"How?" Thomas asked, with a twist of joyless satisfaction to the word, as if he'd tripped Jimmy up somehow. "It wouldn't be because _this_ time I'm skiving off with someone who makes you uncomfortable, would it?"

_No, _Jimmy thought. _It's different because it was you and me then. And now it's not._

He didn't say anything.

"That's what I thought," Thomas said with quiet, vicious satisfaction.

* * *

Jimmy had worried that the Duke would tell Thomas about their encounter in the hall, and he'd waited apprehensively for Thomas to make mention of it. While Jimmy had merely been attempting to restore normality, he had a suspicion that Thomas might take his efforts to diminish the presence of the man Thomas was sleeping with as another sign that Jimmy wasn't comfortable with the _gay thing._

He'd even foreseen a conversation where Thomas efficiently twisted Jimmy's use of words like 'normality' to mean something that Jimmy didn't mean, like 'Thomas not having sex'.

(Which…sort of _was _what Jimmy meant, but he didn't mean it in an anti-_gay _way. He just wanted Thomas to stop sleeping with people, especially the Duke. Thomas just had a tendency to nitpick the most perfectly rational requests).

But in spite of Jimmy's trepidation, Thomas didn't bring it up…and he realized that the Duke _hadn't _mentioned it to him. It should have made Jimmy feel relieved, he supposed, but it didn't.

They really _didn't_ talk about him.

_Thomas_ didn't talk about him.

It made him feel like he didn't matter at all. Like he was disposable to Thomas, somehow.

This feeling was only compounded when he was abruptly dispatched him to help with the local school visits.

"But that's _Alfred's_ job," Jimmy protested.

"This way we finish sooner, and we're only down a tour guide for one day, instead of two," Thomas pointed out.

"Right," Jimmy muttered. "That takes care of me, then." It made sense, but it also felt like an evasion, like Thomas wanted to get rid of him.

There was a silence, and Jimmy glanced up to find Thomas looking at him. Thomas' shoulders jerked upwards almost imperceptibly – a slight, almost defensive looking motion, but he said, quite lightly, "You'll be back before you know it. And don't worry – I won't do anything you wouldn't do."

"Well I hope we have a little more leeway than _that_," came a voice from the side. Jimmy scowled at the Duke, who was now leaning against the doorframe. He wondered how long he'd been standing there. "I'd rather not return to the Victorian age, myself."

* * *

And so, the next morning, while Alfred blathered about the school schedule (that _Jimmy_ had made out, only for Thomas to completely rearrange), Jimmy cut his eggs into angry pieces.

" – then I take the College, and that means you can go to Ripon Grammar."

"Brilliant," Jimmy muttered. Yolk bled across his plate.

"It's not so bad," Alfred said. "It might be nice to be out of Downton for the day."

Jimmy thought about it – the Duke and Thomas in the office together. All day. He took a long swallow of orange juice to choke down the bile that rose at the idea.

"If we time it right, we might even be able to meet up for lunch – I know a nice little bistro."

"Oh stop, please – I don't think I can handle the excitement," Jimmy said. "Lunch in a bistro – I've got goosebumps already."

"D'you have to be so unpleasant?" Ivy said in exasperation. "You've been in a horrible mood for _ages. _I don't know what's got you in such a snit – but I'm telling you, it's not fair taking it out on Alfred and me."

This, coming from the originator of such punishments as the cleaning rota and the shower schedule, was too much to be borne. "_I'm _taking it out on _you?_"

"You heard me."

"That's rich that is, coming from _you_" –

Ivy's cheeks looked slightly pink, but that could have just been an overzealous application of blusher, because she tilted her head challengingly and said, "What's _that_ supposed to" –

On the table, her mobile rang, and with a last dark look at Jimmy, she picked it up. "Alan? Oh, Maria, hi – how" – she suddenly went silent, hand coming up to her mouth. "Oh," she said. "Oh Maria, I'm so sorry."

She let out a wavering breath and started to cry. Alfred and Jimmy stared, as unaware, she choked out, "Yes…yeah…no, of _course_ I will. I will. I'll see you then. Yeah. You too…Bye."

She hung up, and looked at Jimmy. "That was Maria," she said, and her face contorted again. "It's Wellington. He passed away in his sleep last night."

"He's dead?" Jimmy asked blankly.

Ivy turned her face into Alfred's chest and began to sob in earnest. Alfred shot Jimmy a reproving look – but it was shock that had made him ask, because the dog had been old and decrepit, yes, but _so _old and _so_ decrepit that he'd seemed eternal in some strange way.

At the door, before they left for work, Ivy approached him, and said, "It's – Maria's having a memorial this evening. To remember Wellington's life before they say goodbye."

Jimmy nodded. He didn't know what other response would be appropriate.

Almost defiantly, Ivy said, "So – do you want to?"

"You're asking me to go?"

"_I'm _not asking you – Maria just said, and since you _did _look after him that time…but it's all right. I'll just tell her you couldn't" –

"All right," Jimmy found himself saying.

Ivy stared at him for a moment, thrown, before echoing, "All right then. I'll meet you after work, and we can go together."

* * *

Later that day Jimmy found himself rattling off some prepared notes about the exhibition to a classroom packed tight with a number of girls who regarded him with unblinking interest.

" – also get to handle some of the things these people left behind, like old letters or the housekeeper's keys," Jimmy finished. It didn't sound particularly enticing to his ears, but then, this was the fourth time today that he'd given this speech, and his mind was elsewhere. He looked around the room. "Any questions?"

There was a dispiriting silence. Then, an oddly familiar-looking girl raised her hand.

"Yes?" Jimmy said.

"Did you ever make it up with your girlfriend after you had that massive fight in the café that time?" she asked.

It was a long day, and not even lunch with Alfred in the aforementioned bistro proved a distraction.

Alfred was distraught over Wellington. Well, more accurately, Alfred was distraught over Ivy's reaction to Wellington's death.

"D'you think she's all right?" Alfred asked, mobile clutched in his hand, and fingers twitching with the desire to text.

"He was just a dog," Jimmy said. He stared out the window.

Even making his way through all the schools on his list and finishing early didn't cheer Jimmy up, and after texting Ivy, he made his way back to Downton so that he could pick her up after she finished (Alfred having insisted on driving her towork that morning, because of how upset she had been).

He knew it would only make him feel worse, but he couldn't stop himself from wandering down the halls and to his office. He fully expected to see the Duke sitting in his chair at the very least, taking his place and pushing his way in to the last space that Jimmy shared with Thomas. Or maybe he anticipated walking in to the office to find it empty, the Duke and Thomas long gone.

What he got was neither, as he opened the door, and Thomas, alone and sitting at his desk, looked up.

Relief, and something else (gladness, but not exactly – something more specific than that, though Jimmy couldn't quite pinpoint it) crashed into him with so much force he felt thrown off balance.

"I wasn't expecting to see you this evening," Thomas said.

"Finished early," Jimmy said. The powerful relief receded, leaving him feeling almost empty – except for the desire to sit down beside Thomas and just - talk. Or not talk, even. Abruptly he remembered - _Did you ever make it up with your girlfriend after you had that massive fight – _the way Thomas had touched him back then, fingers brushing through his hair, stroking against his scalp, checking that he wasn't concussed.

He stared at the floor. It was stupid to wish that he had a concussion now.

"It can't have been as bad as all that," Thomas said, and he couldn't help the flare of hope in his chest, because that was an _opening, _wasn't it?

He cleared his throat. "That's easy for you to say," and took a step toward his chair.

Before he could sit, Thomas' mobile buzzed as he received a text, and Jimmy shut his eyes because he _knew_, even before Thomas put down his phone and said, "Well, I'd better go."

"Right," Jimmy said colourlessly.

At the door, Thomas hesitated. "Are you all right?"

Jimmy gathered himself, keeping himself together with the fraying strings of his pride. "I'm fine."

As Thomas opened the door, Ivy squeezed in, wrapped in her coat. "Hello, Mr Barrow," she said, before asking Jimmy, "Are you ready?"

Thomas frowned, and Jimmy knew her red-rimmed eyes hadn't gone unnoticed. "What's going on?"

Ivy shook her head. "It's, well – my friend, her name's Maria" –

"Wellington died," Jimmy said, slicing cleanly and quickly through the unnecessary explanation.

"What, the dog?"

"You knew him?" Ivy asked, but Thomas didn't answer her. Instead, he looked at Jimmy. "You didn't say anything."

Jimmy shrugged.

"We're going to his memorial now," Ivy said. "Are you ready, Jimmy?"

As he passed, Thomas' hand reached out and grasped his arm, holding him in place.

"I'll see you afterwards, in _The Dog and Duck_," Thomas said, and it was only the tilt of his head that gave it away as a question.

Jimmy just looked at him, feeling the press of Thomas' fingers on his arm, mind completely blank.

Pride dictated that he should say no. But then Thomas smiled, tentative and strangely charming, and said, "Come on. Hair of the dog that pissed on you," and Jimmy found himself almost smiling, and nodded, just once.

* * *

Ivy led him round the side of Maria's small white house, to the back garden where roughly ten people stood, shoulders hunched and hands in their pockets. Ivy made her way over to Maria, who stood looking vague, as if she wasn't aware of anyone else's presence, and worried her thumbnail with her teeth.

But when she saw Ivy, her face screwed up, and Maria flung herself at her. They rocked back and forth, hugging and crying, and Jimmy glanced away, staring over at a small tree, under which a hole had already been dug.

Eventually, everyone gathered around the little tree, Maria at the top.

"I just – um, I wanted to say, thank you all for coming," she said, and looked around. Her eyes were swollen, but she smiled. "I know Welly would have been thrilled to see all his favourite people…and I'm really glad you're here, too."

She paused and took a breath. "I don't think we should be sad," she said, blinking very rapidly. Her voice kept catching and wobbling. "Welly was – so special, and I think we were, we were just really lucky to have him for so long, and that's what this evening is about. Saying thank you, and remembering just how" –

She stopped and swallowed hard, before continuing. "So thank you, Welly, for being my best friend – and licking my hand whenever I didn't feel well – and always keeping my feet warm in bed. You were my best, _best _boy, and I'm going to miss you."

Maria's husband carefully placed a blanket wrapped bundle in the hole, and Maria turned away, back shaking.

When the first shovelful of dirt was thrown in, Jimmy was startled by a touch on his elbow. Without looking at him, Ivy wrapped her hand around his arm, touching him for the first time since their disastrous hook up. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her free hand, and they watched in silence as Maria's husband filled in the grave.

Afterwards, Ivy pulled away almost immediately, breaking the fragile truce. But although she seemed a little embarrassed, she almost smiled at Jimmy when she said, "Come on, let's go in – it's freezing."

Inside, Maria inflicted an uncomfortable, damp hug on him, and thanked him. "I know Welly would have been glad to see you. He was always telling me how much he liked you."

Jimmy refrained from saying that Wellington was a _dog_, not a character from _The Wind in the Willows_, and so not much given to conversation. Instead he smiled politely and thanked her.

When Maria pointed him to the couch and offered him a cup of tea and a chance to reminisce about Wellington, tears already spilling down her cheeks – Ivy caught his eye, hesitated for a moment, and then jumped in and smoothly made his excuses before he had to. "Jimmy'd love to, but it'll have to be some other time – he's meeting someone."

Maria smiled at him, tear tracks shining under the kitchen lights. "Oh – well, you'd better get going then. I hope she's nice – you deserve a really nice girl." She hugged him again, and Jimmy awkwardly touched her back with his palms. Ivy rolled her eyes at him, but said, mildly, "I'll see you at home later?"

"Yeah," Jimmy said.

She smiled a bit, and turned back to Maria.

* * *

Thomas was already sitting at a table in the corner of _The Dog and Duck _when Jimmy walked in – and when Thomas looked up and caught his eye, Jimmy felt another of those knee-weakening surges of release. It wasn't the same as _happiness, _but it felt like the threads of tension that had been pulled tight inside of him all loosened at once. It felt like he could finally breathe again.

And that was before he started drinking.

"You all right?" Thomas asked, observing him closely. His skin sang under the scrutiny. "You seem a bit depressed."

"I just went round to someone's house to watch them bury their dog. It wasn't exactly _Match of the Day. _Of course I'm depressed," Jimmy told him. Then, after a few more swallows of his latest drink (his…somethingth of the night), "He was just a dog."

"Yeah," Thomas said. "I know."

"He was all right, though," Jimmy added, another drink later. "Wellington."

"He was definitely memorable," Thomas allowed, but the corners of his lips tilted up when Jimmy looked at him, and Jimmy tapped his ankle with his foot. "All right," he said, smirking back a little. "Cheer me up."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Thomas said. He was still nursing his second drink. Jimmy shook his head.

"I don't know," he said, slightly exasperated. "Tell me something."

"Like what?" Thomas asked dubiously.

It hit Jimmy in a blinding flash of brilliance. "The Duke," he said. "Tell me about you and the Duke."

Thomas stared at him. Jimmy waited. "I don't think that's a very good idea," Thomas said carefully.

"Well, I do," Jimmy insisted.

"Then it's a shame it's not up to you," Thomas told him.

Jimmy found himself reaching out, placing his hand on Thomas' arm, the same way Thomas had done with him earlier. "Please," he said openly. His pride had drowned several pints ago. "I want to know."

From the look on Thomas' face, Jimmy was convinced he was going to refuse again. But instead he said, "What do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me about how you met – the first time," Jimmy said, and rested his chin (which was heavier than he remembered it being, usually) on his hand.

"Lady Mary brought him down to show him around Downton. Most people don't need a tour guide to show someone around their old house, but…" Thomas shrugged.

Jimmy frowned, thinking about Thomas showing off for the Duke, carelessly throwing out historical facts, light eyes constantly meeting languid brown ones, and then – and then Thomas pulling him aside, into one of the rooms – _You can't quit now. You'll miss the best part._

"I knew you wouldn't want to hear it," Thomas said, and drained his glass. "It's not my fault if it makes you uncomfortable."

To distract himself from the images in his head, Jimmy said. "He was with Lady Mary?"

"Mm," Thomas said. "Well, she thought so, anyway."

Jimmy hadn't meant _that, _and he gaped. "They were _together?"_

"No," Thomas said, very definitely. "He just wasn't out yet…at least not to her. It was her own fault if she got the wrong impression." He flicked a small sideways glance at Jimmy, and allowed, "Though he might have…helped a bit with that."

Jimmy whistled. "No wonder she hates your guts."

Thomas inclined his head, as if he took his ability to incite loathing in other people as a compliment. "It wasn't like that, though. He was going through a rough patch, financially, and Lady Mary was picking up the tab."

"Oh right – so instead of getting his head turned and cheating on her with her tour guide, he was just using her for her money all along. Can't think why she'd be upset about _that_," Jimmy said, with heavy sarcasm. "So – what happened?"

"His mother married an American – heir to some steel company or other. Loaded, of course."

"I meant with _you _and him," Jimmy clarified.

Thomas shrugged. "We kept it going through the summer. In secret, obviously."

"Obviously," Jimmy repeated, with a roll of his eyes. "And then?"

"Philip's mother got married, and he didn't have to be so – careful – any more," Thomas said. "So, when he was having a party for his birthday, he asked me to come."

"How kind," Jimmy said. The edges of his words had started to soften, blurring into one another. He cleared his throat.

"Only thing _was, _he couldn't pay my way there – said he couldn't ask his parents, not _yet – _and I was only working weekends at Downton, so I didn't have a lot of money just then…" Thomas trailed off.

"What did you do?" Jimmy prompted him.

"Begged. Borrowed," Thomas' fingers turned his empty glass round and round on its beermat. He darted another of those sidelong looks at Jimmy. "Stole."

Jimmy feared that Thomas had stopped the story for good – he didn't know how many leading questions he could ask before Thomas decided it wasn't worth it – but after a moment, Thomas picked up the threads of his narrative again. "Skipped off early that Saturday – didn't tell anyone where I was going – caught the train – and arrived in plenty of time for the party."

Jimmy didn't have a good feeling about it, but he said, as lightly as he could manage, careful not to let any of the words trip him up, "And how was it?"

"Very nice," Thomas said, to his surprise, but then amended it to, "At first. It was good, not having to hide, for once." He paused, and said offhandedly, "It probably wasn't so nice for Lady Mary, though."

"She was there?"

"Front and centre," Thomas said. "Think I came as a bit of a shock to her."

"A bit," Jimmy scoffed.

"She couldn't make a scene though. Not considering where we were. Not that _she_ would, anyway."

A kind of nausea swept through Jimmy, and he felt every one of the drinks he'd consumed, as he thought about the Duke, unveiling his gayness like a famous painting, and using Thomas as a kind of human prop. The bar felt like it was tilting around him.

"He was good at that – arranging things so he wouldn't be caught out," Thomas reminisced.

"_There's_ a talent," Jimmy muttered, before demanding, "And then? Come on – you can't stop _now._"

There was something rueful and self-deprecating in the movement of Thomas' mouth. "And then, the morning after the party, Philip told me that it had been – _fun, _but he'd be leaving soon, to study architecture, and he didn't expect that we'd be seeing that much of each other any more."

"So he _dropped _you? Just like that?"

"Well, he'd made his point, hadn't he?" Thomas said. His eyes flicked to Jimmy's and he acknowledged, "I wasn't exactly thrilled either. Might even have made a bit of a scene about it."

"_Good,_" Jimmy said. "What did you say to him?"

Something flashed across Thomas' face, but he said calmly enough, "I might have threatened to go to the papers."

"Go to the papers?" Jimmy repeated. It was as if the conversation had taken a sudden left turn. He thought he probably shouldn't drink any more.

"He was always in the society pages – Lady Mary too…you know, _Out and About, _'spotted looking cosy at the opening of the latest club', all that kind of thing." He made a face. "Didn't think I'd need to shop around for a paper that'd run '_Two-timing Duke's Secret Gay Love Nest'._"

Thomas shrugged as if blackmail and threats were the most mundane, logical reactions to a break-up.

Jimmy stared at him.

"It didn't come off, of course," Thomas said, a bit wistfully. "He threw my phone out the window. All those photographs and texts – gone. And me with no phone and no money to get home. No job, either, as far as I knew."

"What happened?" Jimmy found himself leaning forward.

"Borrowed a phone from someone on the street, and called Downton. Sarah paid for my train ticket back."

"Sarah?" Jimmy questioned, forehead wrinkling in confusion, then, as it hit him, "_O' Brien?" _Thomas nodded. "What did you have to do in return – sell a kidney?" Jimmy asked.

Thomas smiled a bit. "It wasn't always like…" He abruptly changed tack, "Mind you, I had to pay her back, all right – and she did go on about planning things better, and for pity's sake to at least make sure I had _copies_ next time I took it into my head to go blackmailing anyone."

"Did she expect you to make a _career _out of threatening ex-boyfriends?" Jimmy asked incredulously.

Thomas appeared thoughtful. "Still good advice." Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, Bates didn't say anything about me nicking fifty quid from him" –

"You stole from _Mr Bates_?"

"He left his wallet out," Thomas defended. "And what was he going to spend it on, anyway? Feeding starving orphans?"

Jimmy couldn't suppress a snort.

"Anyway, he got to feel virtuous about not telling Mr Carson – so he still got his weekly dose of sanctimony. And I was only…" Thomas quickly calculated, "…about eighteen at the time, so I think I got a pass on keeping my job due to '_the folly of youth'." _Thomas intoned that last part in mimicry of Mr Carson. "Mrs Hughes might have said something…Besides, the last thing Lady Mary wanted was it getting out, and Carson knew enough about it to know I'd kick up if I lost my job. Anyway, it wasn't like they had anyone lined up to replace me. But of course, they watched me like a hawk after that."

There was a silence as Jimmy tried to take it all in.

"So now you know the whole story," Thomas said, watching him carefully.

"Hang on," Jimmy said, as something occurred to him. "You – after all that, everything he _did, _when he showed up again,you _still_ let him…"

"He wasn't the only one," Thomas pointed out. "Or d'you consider blackmail pillow-talk?"

"_He _obviously does," Jimmy said. His head was starting to buzz – there were more people in the pub now, talking and joking and walking past his and Thomas' table with drinks in their hands. The noise bothered Jimmy. "I can't believe you still trust him."

Thomas didn't reply right away. "It isn't like that," he said eventually.

Jimmy looked at him, silently demanding more. With a small sigh, Thomas obliged. "When we first – it was different. I'm not saying it was _From Here to Eternity_…but I was in it for real. I thought he was my way out."

"And now?"

"It's not like that," Thomas said, with a clear air of closing the subject – which Jimmy ignored. "What d'you _mean_ it's not like that?" he asked. Thomas didn't answer.

Jimmy persisted. "What is it _now_?"

Thomas glanced around – Jimmy had inadvertently started to raise his voice – before turning back to Jimmy and saying, coolly, "A distraction, if you must know."

"From what?" Jimmy asked. "A distraction from _what?"_

But Thomas moved irritably in his seat, lips pressed together and Jimmy knew that he wouldn't say anything else.

"I don't like him," Jimmy mumbled.

"I know you don't," Thomas said. "Good thing it has nothing to do with you, isn't it?"

Jimmy looked away. "I want to go home," he said, scraping his chair back and getting to his feet.

* * *

Outside, Thomas fumbled with his pack of cigarettes, drawing one out and lighting it. The air was cold and swirled strangely in Jimmy's lungs as he breathed it in. He felt as if the ground were pitching slightly under his feet, and he kept bumping against Thomas as they walked.

Jimmy watched him breathe out plumes of smoke – stretching out and up languorously, hanging weightless in the air and then dissipating.

"Do you talk about me?" Jimmy asked suddenly. "With the Duke?"

Against his arm, Thomas' body jerked. "No," he said abruptly.

_Oh_.

Jimmy went back to watching the smoke.

It seemed like no time at all until they were standing in front of Jimmy's house. Even though he'd been the one to suggest going home, he felt reluctant to part when it came to it. Thomas ground his cigarette out beneath his heel, and his mouth began to shape the inevitable goodbye – and Jimmy found himself reaching out, and catching hold of him. He'd been aiming for Thomas' arm, _but this was all right too_, he told himself, as his fingers curled around Thomas' wrist.

"What" – Thomas began, but Jimmy spoke over him, rapidly. "I don't like him, because he's not good enough. That's why."

Thomas had gone very still when Jimmy touched him.

"Oh," he said, sounding rather at a loss. But he rallied, "That's…nice of you, Jimmy, but I can take care of myself" –

"You can do _better_ than _him_," Jimmy said.

"Can I?" Thomas said lightly, and made as if to pull his hand away, but Jimmy held fast, indignant somehow at the thought that Thomas should undersell himself for the Duke's benefit.

"Yes," he said firmly, and stroked his thumb over the thin skin of Thomas' wrist to underline his point.

Thomas breathed in sharply. Jimmy rubbed the pad of his thumb against his skin again. Thomas' cuff brushed the back of Jimmy's thumb – a contrast to the warmth and smoothness of his skin.

_You're not the only one who can touch him, _Jimmy thought with a lurching kind of triumph, and swept his thumb upwards, as far along Thomas' inner arm as he could reach.

Thomas swallowed. "Jimmy…what are you" –

Jimmy cast about for something to say – anything that could prolong the conversation, and keep Thomas looking at him like that.

"I think we should go to your house next time," he said mindlessly, as he traced figure eights against Thomas' wrist. The pub had been all right, but Jimmy remembered how it was when it was just the two of them.

"You do?"

Jimmy nodded. This time he slid his fingers downwards, so that they were touching the back of Thomas' hand. His thumb stroked softly against Thomas' palm. "You should take me to your house."

Even though Thomas' eyes were light in colour, they seemed strangely dark as they looked into his. _Does the Duke make you look like that? _Jimmy wondered.

"And what" – Thomas' breath hitched, as Jimmy drew a lazy circle, " – what would we do there?" His voice came out very low. It made something judder down Jimmy's spine.

Absently, he scraped the edge of his nail back and forth across Thomas' palm. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. But Thomas was standing in front of him, very still, waiting for his answer.

"Have a drink?" he suggested.

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, and pulled his hand out of Jimmy's grasp. Jimmy's fingers twitched at the loss, but Thomas tucked his hands away in his pockets and said, "I think you've had enough for one night, somehow." He sounded mostly wry, but also a little something else – shaken, maybe, or slightly breathless.

"Next time, then," Jimmy said, taking a half-step closer to Thomas.

Thomas looked at him for a long moment. "If you want."

Jimmy nodded, ignoring the wary way Thomas spoke. "Good." He turned and made his way toward the front door, fumbling in his pocket for his keys, but turned back midway to remind Thomas, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Thomas was still standing exactly where Jimmy had left him, watching him. It made something swoop in Jimmy's stomach – probably all the alcohol, he thought vaguely.

"Tomorrow," Thomas agreed.


	21. Chapter 21

'Nother long update! This is my problem - I can never judge how long anything will be. But we are FINALLY GETTING SOMEWHERE, I SWEAR IT.

* * *

Jimmy woke the next day with a headache that sidled uneasily round his skull, and a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He got up and dressed, careful to keep his mind blank.

Then he walked downstairs and put some bread in the toaster, feeling all the while like an actor in a play, following stage directions. He resolutely pushed down the thoughts that tried to sprout, like weeds, in the cracks of his concentration.

It helped to listen to Alfred. Alfred was the equivalent of weedkiller for thoughts.

" – must be some comfort to know he left his mark on the world. And I don't just mean the big stain on my bedroom carpet," Alfred said to Ivy.

"It's still so hard to believe he's gone," Ivy said, staring into her glass of orange juice.

The toast popped up and Jimmy put it on a plate.

"Did you have a good night, Jimmy?" she asked, as he sat down.

"Fine," he said, and took a big bite of unbuttered toast so that he wouldn't have to say anything else.

"You know, I think you had the right idea," Ivy said, as he resolutely chewed. "What d'you say, Alfred? We could go out and drown our sorrows this evening – have our own little wake for Wellington."

Alfred frowned. Usually he seemed excited at the prospect of sharing a spin cycle with Ivy, let alone an alcohol soaked evening, but strangely, he didn't seem happy.

"I'm sorry," he said, "But Daisy's coming over this evening to run through our sales figures…and after that, we're thinking of trying a quince and apple chutney."

Ivy's eyebrows rose. "Oh," she said.

"You're welcome to stay, of course…but…"

"You want to be alone with Daisy?" Ivy's eyebrows went up.

"Well, a good chutney requires a lot of concentration," Alfred said.

"Sounds serious," Ivy said, then, a little quieter, as if she couldn't help herself, "You and Daisy, that's…new."

"We did consider a marmalade, but chutney seemed like the next logical step," Alfred told her.

"I didn't mean" – Ivy began, then stopped, shaking her head. "Never mind." She turned to Jimmy. "I suppose it's no use asking – you wouldn't be up for a repeat of last night?"

Jimmy looked up from his blank contemplation of his plate, meeting her eyes, only to quickly look away. He took another enormous bite of toast, and chewed and chewed.

* * *

At Downton, he couldn't avoid thinking about it any longer, and he sat in his car for an extra minute or two, trying to collect himself.

Not that there was anything _to _think about, really. In spite of the jumping in his stomach telling him otherwise, he hadn't _done _anything.

All right, he'd grabbed hold of Thomas, to make a point. But what was that, really? _Nothing._

He remembered closing his fingers around Thomas' wrist, like a bracelet – holding fast. Maybe he'd held on for slightly too long – but he'd been drinking, and people tended to get a bit carried away when they were drunk.

He thought about slowly stroking the inside of Thomas' wrist, his palm, the way Thomas' breathing had quickened, and how Jimmy had wanted to keep talking, keep touching him for as long as possible.

He hadn't _done _anything, he told himself again. His unsettled body didn't seem to believe him.

In the café, he debated whether or not to get coffee for Thomas. He didn't want to deviate from normality…but he baulked at the thought of giving Thomas the coffee, their hands meeting as he passed the cup, their fingers maybe even brushing. He didn't want to remind Thomas of last night.

Of course, since he hadn't _done _anything, _not_ bringing Thomas his coffee might only serve to draw more attention to something that really didn't merit a second thought.

"For heaven's sake, stop dawdling and make your mind up," Mrs Patmore said, throwing up her arms. "It's _coffee_ – not the fate of the free world!"

He got two cups, and slowly made his way to the office.

The key, he thought, was to act as if everything was normal – which everything _was, _because he hadn't _done _anything. Just touched Thomas' wrist and – asked to go to his house. For a drink, or something.

What would he do, he wondered, if Thomas actually followed through and _invited _Jimmy to his place?

The idea was enormous, unexpected, and he had to walk around it, examining it from all angles. _ If Thomas asked_, he thought, if Thomas asked him…

Well…he would say yes.

Why shouldn't he?

He and Thomas were friends, and friends did things like that. He felt a thrill of anticipation in his stomach – Thomas _would_ ask him, he'd said so last night. _Next time – _they'd practically made plans already. It would be rude to say no, and then Thomas might not ever ask him again.

Jimmy would just make sure he wouldn't drink so much this time.

He nodded to himself – a kind of punctuation at having resolved the situation to his satisfaction. Unbidden, Mrs Hughes words floated into his mind – _these situations have a way of working themselves out._

Still, in spite of his newfound confidence, he found himself faltering as he reached the office – maybe because he wasn't quite as certain underneath the surface, or maybe because, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, it still felt as if _something_ had happenedlast night…

…or maybe because he had a premonition that things weren't going to proceed as smoothly as he imagined.

Afterwards, when he thought about it, it was the latter part of Mrs Hughes' wry prediction that rattled around in his head – _for better or worse. For better or worse. For better or worse._

But that was probably just hindsight, because when he turned the corner, the woman waiting outside the office didn't look anything like a harbinger of doom, and she didn't strike fear into his heart, or anything apart from mild curiosity, really.

"Hello," she said, as soon as she saw him. "I wonder if you could help me – I'm looking for Thomas Barrow." She was young and very attractive, pretty in a lush kind of way, full-lipped, with masses of thick, dark hair.

"Well, you're in the right place – this is his office," Jimmy said, indicating the door behind her.

"I've already knocked – he's not in," she said. "He _is_ working today, isn't he?"

"He should be in shortly," Jimmy said. "But he has quite a few appointments – I don't know that he'll be able to see you right away. If you want, I can take your name and number and" –

"That's all right. I'll wait," the woman said, quietly, but with assurance. Her expression was somber but somehow determined.

At a bit of a loss, Jimmy juggled the coffees and unlocked the office door. He supposed he should offer her a seat. "If you'll come in, Miss...?"

"Sybil?" came Thomas' voice from behind them both.

With a bright smile, the woman turned, immediately crossing the distance that separated them. "Thomas! It's so good to see you." And without a trace of hesitation she flung her arms around him. Even more surprising, Thomas' hands came up around her back, not just allowing her to hug him – but actively returning the embrace.

"It's good to see you too," he said. In spite of how clearly pleased and taken he was with Sybil's appearance, Thomas glanced over her shoulder, and Jimmy felt his eyes rest on him for one long, hot moment that made the way Thomas' skin had felt under his thumb flash through Jimmy's mind.

When Sybil pulled back, Thomas gestured toward Jimmy and said, "I take it you two have already met?"

Sybil shook her head. "Not formally, no. So why don't you do the honours?"

Thomas swept his left hand between them. "Jimmy, this is Sybil Crawley – Sybil, this is Jimmy, my" –

The word '_my'_ jolted through Jimmy like an electric shock, and he blurted out, " – friend," at the same time as Thomas said, "– P.A."

Thomas stared at him for a second, but Sybil said, politely, "How nice. You're doing well – an office _and _a P.A. all to yourself."

Thomas shrugged, deliberately casual. "I've made a few changes, here and there."

Sybil's mouth twitched. "So I've heard." Jimmy studied her. There was a family resemblance certainly, but she looked softer than her sister, the eldest one, Mary, who hated Thomas, and she seemed more vibrant and natural than the pleasant but rather stilted mother.

"You've been talking to Carson, then," Thomas said, but Sybil shook her head. "No, actually – I stopped one of the tour guides and came straight here. You know how Mr Carson is – he always makes such a fuss, and I wanted to talk to you first. You look – well."

Jimmy wondered if he was imagining the slight pause before she said 'well'.

"I'm doing all right," he said. He cocked his head to the side. "And how about you? Still getting by on four hours a night?"

Sybil pulled a face. "Living in the calm between ear infections at the moment."

"You can bore me with the details on the guided tour," Thomas said smoothly, and offered his arm to her with perfect courtesy. "We should start with the military hospital – I have a feeling you'll like that, Nurse Crawley" –

But Sybil didn't link her arm through his, and the smile leaked slowly off her face. "Thomas," she said, and she laid her hand on his sleeve. Jimmy definitely wasn't imagining her hesitation this time. "Is there somewhere we can talk – in private?"

Thomas went very still for just a moment, before his face just closed off, like a curtain had fallen across it.

"Of course," he said, and walked stiffly toward the office, holding the door open for her. Sybil ducked inside, and Thomas' eyes met Jimmy's. "I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself for a while, Jimmy," he said, and he even smiled – but it was a facsimile, polite punctuation, and even as Jimmy smiled back and agreed, he felt dread coil and slither heavily in his stomach.

This, whatever it was, was _bad – _he knew from the way Thomas had braced himself, wiped his face clean of expression, and the slightly rigid way he'd moved, like he was preparing for a blow.

And so, when the door clicked closed, Jimmy found himself rooted to the spot. He stood there, a few paces away, listening to the muffled murmur of voices inside the office – Sybil Crawley's mainly – and drank his coffee. And then he started on Thomas' coffee, because it was getting cold.

The voices stopped and there was complete silence, a moment of pure quiet that made Jimmy tense up - before suddenly, the office door burst open and Thomas appeared.

His face was very white, and he strode quickly past Jimmy without a word – Jimmy didn't even think Thomas _saw _him.

"Thomas? What's wrong?" he asked, trying to grab Thomas' sleeve, but Thomas just kept moving, and didn't acknowledge him at all. Jimmy started after him, but suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, and a voice in his ear, saying, "It's all right – you hold the fort, I'll take care of Thomas," and Sybil Crawley was brushing past him, almost running to catch up as Thomas disappeared around the corner.

For want of anything else to do, Jimmy went into the office. He waited for a while, then, when it didn't look like anyone would be coming back – and his call to Thomas' mobile went unanswered – he began cancelling Thomas' appointments for the day.

* * *

" – until the mustard seeds start to pop," Daisy finished, consulting the recipe. "Then I'll be ready with the spices."

"Right," Alfred nodded.

Jimmy sat at the table and flicked his mobile with his fingers, until it spun in aimless circles.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing? Mrs Patmore says that if we want this to turn out right, we have to be really precise about times and ingredients, otherwise we'll have fourteen jars to get rid of – and we can't afford that, not with our profit margins." Daisy had been all business from the moment she'd swept in – she hadn't even looked up from her recipe to wish Ivy and Alan a good night when they headed for the pub, and Jimmy had received a stern talking-to about _sitting quietly _and _not talking -_ for the good of the chutney.

"I'm ready," Alfred said, bracing himself like he was about to run a triathlon.

After that, it was a two-hour blur of simmering quince and grating ginger and stirring and preparing jars – during which Jimmy's phone steadfastly refused to ring. He hadn't seen Thomas for the rest of the day, and when he'd gone searching, it had been to find Thomas' car gone, and no sign of him, or Sybil Crawley.

Finally, as he'd been leaving the office, he'd sent a text, asking Thomas if he was going to be in tomorrow. A text that had gone unanswered for the last four hours. He tapped his mobile off the edge of the table.

"Stop it!" Daisy said, brandishing a spatula. "Stop distracting Alfred – can't you see he's trying to get the air bubbles out?"

Jimmy stopped, and watched Alfred frantically push another spatula down the sides of one glass jar, then thrust the implement toward the centre – but before he even realized it, he was back to staring at the unhelpful screen of his mobile.

Finally, fourteen jars were sealed, one of which was thrust under Jimmy's nose. "What colour would you call that?" Daisy demanded. "Would you say it was amber?"

Jimmy stared down at the thick brownish-yellowish mixture inside the glass. It was speckled with black dots, and red, mushy looking pieces of…something. "Only if you promise to take it away," he said, lip curling in disgust.

The jar was thankfully whisked away. "Amber," Daisy crowed, beaming at Alfred. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbow, and tendrils of her hair were stuck to her forehead. Alfred's face was beet red from all the simmering. Clearly, chutney was a grueling business.

"I must say, Daisy, you really know your way around a stock pot," Alfred told her.

It wasn't possible for Daisy to flush, given that her face was already pink, but her eyes went wide – and then she blinked and cleared her throat. "Right. Well – I'd better be off."

"What – just like that?" Alfred said. "There's no rush, is there?"

"Time is money," Daisy replied, holding her chin up. "And I can't afford to waste either, not anymore."

"What's that supposed to" – Alfred began, only to be interrupted by the sound of Ivy shouting, "Well fine, then, _don't_ bother," and slamming the front door.

Daisy grabbed three jars of chutney and balanced them under her arm. "I'm going home," she said firmly, over the sound of Ivy's feet pounding up the stairs.

Jimmy's phone continued to not-ring.

* * *

The next morning, Thomas wasn't in the office when Jimmy got there.

_A little warning might have been nice, _Jimmy thought sourly. It wasn't as if he had, oh, he didn't know – specifically _texted _to know if Thomas would be in. He tried Thomas' number again – but there was no answer. _What a surprise._

_Ten o' clock, _he thought. He could hold off on cancelling Thomas' appointments until ten o' clock. It was possible Thomas had just gotten delayed this morning. The image of Thomas yesterday, stiff-backed and white-faced as he walked away flickered through Jimmy's mind like a ghost.

Jimmy turned on his computer and started work. Well, as much work as he could do while Thomas wasn't there – which wasn't much. His eyes kept flicking to the clock on his screen, as time crawled by. Quarter past nine. Half nine. Twenty to ten. Ten to ten.

At five minutes to ten, the office door opened, and Jimmy felt his heart thump hard with relief. Unfortunately though, it wasn't Thomas who stepped inside.

"Hullo," Sybil Crawley said. She stood just inside the door, hand still on the handle. "Jimmy, isn't it?"

He forced himself to smile. "Yes. Sorry Miss Crawley – but I don't think Thomas is in today." It probably wasn't the right form of address – Mr Carson and Thomas had referred to her sister as Lady Mary, but it felt unbelievably stupid to refer to anyone as Lady Something while actually _speaking_ to her, like they were all white-gloved characters in some plodding old play.

She didn't seem to mind, anyway. "Sybil, please. And that's all right," she said. "Actually – it was you I came to see."

* * *

They took a table right at the back of the café – after Sybil had spent a full five minutes talking to Daisy and Mrs Patmore.

"Looks like you're a hit," Jimmy commented, as Daisy finally left the table.

Sybil raised her teacup to her lips and took a sip. "I suppose when you work somewhere, it creates a bond."

"You _worked_ here?" Jimmy asked.

Sybil shrugged. "For a while." She took another sip from her cup. "Typical teenage rebellion, I suppose – you know…apply for a job in your family's stately home, work summers as a tour guide, bring a socialist boyfriend home to tea…"

"Oh yeah. Typical," Jimmy agreed.

She grinned. "Well, I did my best. Though Granny _did _ask if I wouldn't rather just get a piercing or a tattoo. It would be less trouble, she said."

"So that's how you know Thomas. From working together."

She nodded. "Yes." She smiled. "We had a lot of fun during those summers. Like I said – when you work with someone, it creates a bond."

Jimmy thought this was a bit of a starry-eyed way of looking at it. Thomas had worked with Mr _Bates_ too, and they weren't exactly walking around arm-in-arm. But obviously she believed it, and it was just as obvious that there _was_ a bond between her and Thomas – she launched into anecdotes of her summer-as-a-tour-guide with enthusiasm, and she questioned Jimmy about _his _experience with Thomas with clear interest.

"I was so glad when Matthew hired him on, especially after…" she trailed off and studied Jimmy, very intently, for a moment. "Jimmy…you said yesterday that you were Thomas' friend. That's true – isn't it?"

Her manner had changed from warmly open to something more serious. The earnestness of her gaze made him uncomfortable.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm – we're friends."

"Good," she said, sitting back in her chair a little. "I just – I wanted to make sure before I said anything else. Because this is rather personal."

And then she told him about Edward Courtenay.

" – a degenerative disease – very rare. Very sad." Sybil stared at her teacup, as if she were miles away. "He'd only just learned about it, really, when we first met him. And it was – he was trying to come to terms with it, I suppose. He talked an awful lot about wanting to go travelling – he should go while he could still see the sights, he said."

She broke off and fiddled with the empty sugar packet on the side of her saucer.

"I'm sorry," Jimmy offered, a bit awkwardly.

She ignored him, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken at all. It sounded almost as if she were talking to herself. "But it really _did _seem like he was coping a little better. Talking about the future. Starting to accept…" she stopped, and met Jimmy's eyes. "He committed suicide just a few days ago."

He didn't know what to say. More than that – he didn't know what _she _was going to say…though thinking of Thomas' face yesterday, he thought he could guess.

" – a big shock, obviously," she said. "And that's – well, that's why I wanted to talk to you."

"So – were he and Thomas…" Jimmy began, then trailed off, because he didn't know how to finish that sentence. He wasn't sure he _wanted _to finish it.

Carefully, Sybil said, "I think…that's probably a question Thomas should answer." She looked at Jimmy and admitted, "Though…I'm not sure it made any difference, either way. I mean, if you'd seen them together, the way I did, you'd know that the – the _definition_ didn't matter…Thomas even handed in his notice just so that he could go travelling with Edward."

It felt like the world jerked around him. "_That's_ why he left Downton?" He couldn't take it in. He understood the words Sybil Crawley was saying, but they refused to make sense in his brain.

"I'm sure you understand that this is going to be a difficult time for Thomas," she said. She bit her lip. "The thing is...we're going to Ireland soon, Tom and I, so it's – I won't be _here, _and phone-calls and email aren't the same. I know Thomas has been seeing - um, and I've spoken to Philip, but I'm not sure how" – she paused, and then said delicately, " – how _practical _that will be, in the long run."

"D'you think he's going to – what, do something? Like this Edward Courtenay?" Jimmy asked, a kind of indignation at the thought of it. Thomas wasn't _like _that. And Sybil, well-meaning as she was, couldn't know Thomas very well if she thought that about him.

"No, of course not," she said, quite calmly, and Jimmy felt slightly mollified. "I don't believe Thomas would do anything _rash. _But it's a hard thing to have to deal with…and no-one should have to do it alone."

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, very serious. "You said you were Thomas' friend…well, Thomas is going to _need _a friend now – a real one." Her eyes were fixed on Jimmy's now, steady and clear. "Will you look after him? Just – be his friend? Please. I don't like to ask…but I _can't, _and I just – I want to know that someone will be there for him, if he needs it."

It was a responsibility – a heavy one, the kind he'd never asked for – or wanted, even. He could feel it on his back, an enormous burden – the kind Sybil Crawley really couldn't, in good conscience, ask a perfect stranger to shoulder on her behalf.

He opened his mouth. "Yeah," he said, and found himself nodding. "Yeah. I think I can do that."

* * *

Back in the office, after he'd left Sybil Crawley, he thought about Thomas and this shadowy Edward Courtenay.

That Thomas had been – in love with the man was a strange, preposterous thought. That they'd been _friends, _he could believe…but Thomas was – Thomas was _practical, too_ practical to get swept into some – some overblown gay version of _Jane Eyre. _

There were of course, some things that didn't quite _fit _with Jimmy's resolutely platonic reading of the relationship – like Thomas' _face, _and the way he'd moved, and how Jimmy hadn't heard a word from him since Sybil's visit yesterday.

And the way Thomas had left Downton to be with Edward Courtenay.

But Jimmy could make _'friends' _stretch at the edges to cover most of that – of course Thomas was upset that a friend had died. It was a shock, and shock made people act strangely, in ways they wouldn't usually.

The only thing he _couldn't _quite explain away was Thomas leaving Downton. But, he reminded himself, that was _Sybil's _take on it – and as nice as she was, it wasn't as if she knew _everything _about Thomas.

Really, he decided, it was kind of her to take this kind of trouble, and to ask _him _to look after Thomas – but it wasn't _necessary. _He'd had a shock, of course, but – Thomas didn't _need_ looking after. Thomas would be fine.

The words on Jimmy's computer screen kept sliding out of his grasp, and he had to keep rubbing his tired eyes.

It was a shock when the office door eased open for the second time, and he stared at the Duke in incomprehension. "What are you doing here?" he couldn't keep himself from asking.

The Duke's eyebrows rose. "Why, availing of your hospitality – as ever."

Jimmy scowled.

"Actually," the Duke said – and beneath the unruffled exterior, there was the slightest hint of – nervousness, or tentativeness or something, "Something's come up, and I just wanted to pop by before I caught the train. Say goodbye and all that."

"You're _leaving?_" Jimmy knew he sounded incredulous, rather than ecstatic – and that was a cruel twist of fate.

"I would have thought you'd be all in favour," the Duke said. "Given your – tight schedule."

"But Sybil did _speak _to you, didn't she?" Jimmy persisted, refusing to be distracted from the issue at hand. "So you _know_" –

The Duke cut across him, swiftly. "As I said, something has come up." His smile clearly indicated that the discussion had been closed.

"Right," Jimmy said. He couldn't stop his mouth from curdling into an expression of distaste. "Well, I really don't see why you needed to launch a personal farewell tour, but," he shrugged and barely waved his left hand, dismissing the Duke, and looked back down at his work.

"The thing is, Thomas is – rather occupied at the moment," the Duke said, annoyingly continuing to stand right in the middle of the office, pointedly _not leaving. _Jimmy began to tap at his keyboard, creating a string of nonsense words that would have to be deleted.

" – so I hope you won't mind making my excuses to him."

Incredulous, Jimmy rose to his feet. "What – you're not even going to _say goodbye _to him_?"_

"From what I hear, Thomas has other things on his mind, and I'd prefer not to disturb him."

"Oh – how _kind _of you_,_" Jimmy bit out.

The Duke shrugged. "Honestly, I don't imagine I should be any great comfort in a crisis," he said. He sounded rueful, self-deprecating almost. As if Jimmy believed _anything_ that came out of his mouth. "Really, I think the best thing I can do is – stay out of Thomas' way."

"No, you're right," Jimmy told him, snapping the words out. "We should manage just fine without you."

The Duke smiled one of those small, infuriating smiles that made Jimmy's fists itch. "Will we?" he said, emphasizing the second word. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Actually," Jimmy said, goaded into rashness, "Thomas probably won't even notice you've gone."

The Duke looked him up and down. "Well – that makes your job significantly easier then, doesn't it?" he said, quite calmly.

* * *

It turned out that Thomas had phoned in sick to Mrs Hughes.

"I told Mr Carson, of course – but I assumed Thomas had let you know," she said, and sighed. "Then Sybil came by this morning, and told me the whole story. I take it she told you, too."

Jimmy nodded.

"We'll be – careful with Thomas, when he comes back," she said, eyes sharp on his. "All of us." It wasn't advice, but an order.

"And when will that be?"

"Tomorrow, I expect. Unless he calls to tell me otherwise." Mrs Hughes seemed to soften a little. "Try not to worry too much, James. It's a hard thing, but – Thomas will come through it, in time."

He _wasn't _worried. He _knew _Thomas, after all. Still, before he left Downton that evening, he got Thomas' address from a red-rimmed Daisy. Just in case he didn't show up tomorrow.

* * *

" – just a dog," Ivy said, waving her fork in the air. "Can you believe he _said_ that?"

Jimmy pushed his food around his plate and tried not to listen.

" – so I said, 'Well, maybe I'm _just a girl _to you,' and _he_ said" –

"Do you think the potatoes are overly seasoned?" Alfred asked with a frown.

"Hm?"

"You haven't eaten very much."

"It's fine," Jimmy said, and stuck a forkful of whatever-it-was into his mouth, to shut him up.

"Are you sure, because" –

Jimmy shoveled in another mouthful. "S'_fine,_" he repeated indistinctly, through a mass of food.

" – just need to find someone who _cares _and _listens _to me_,_" Ivy finished. "Don't you think?"

There was a silence.

"…yes?" Alfred hazarded.

* * *

The next morning, the office door was unlocked – but Jimmy still had to take a moment before stepping inside, and the sight of Thomas sitting behind his desk made gladness surge through him like an electric current.

"Thomas," he said.

Thomas looked up. "Were you expecting someone else?"

He looked neat and put together, the expression on his face composed, as it usually was. And he _sounded _normal too, voice cool and slightly sardonic.

"No," Jimmy said, "Just" - he stepped a little closer, "Sybil was in, and she told us what happened…about your friend. I'm sorry."

"Right," Thomas said, "Well, if you're quite done wringing your hands, maybe we could get to work?" There wasn't a waver, or a catch, or even the hint of a hitch in his words.

Jimmy felt something he hadn't realized was tense, ease inside of him.

They didn't need to worry about Thomas. Thomas was all right.

* * *

Except – he wasn't.

It took a while for Jimmy to admit it, but by the end of the day, he couldn't lie to himself any more. Thomas asked him for times and dates and figures…and that was fine, that was standard.

What _wasn't _standard was the way he asked Jimmy for those times and dates and figures _again, _as if he'd forgotten he'd ever requested them in the first place. And he sat at his desk, to all intents and purposes engrossed by his computer screen – except for the tight clench of his jaw, and the way his eyes sometimes stopped moving from side to side, and just stared blankly ahead.

And he didn't speak, at all. The office was church-quiet, and even the click of the keyboard keys seemed oddly muffled in Jimmy's ears.

Finally he said, awkwardly, because by now it was obvious that Thomas wasn't going to give him ordinary small talk, let alone a perfect lead in to the Duke's sudden absence. "By the way – Philip called in yesterday. The Duke."

"I know who Philip is," Thomas said, in that flawless imitation of a normal tone.

"And he said," Jimmy began awkwardly, "he said something'd come up and he had to leave. Said he didn't want to disturb you before he went."

Thomas was quiet for a moment. Then he lifted his head and looked right at Jimmy. "And? Is that all?"

Jimmy looked back at him. Thomas looked entirely disinterested, and even though that should have thrilled him, instead, it made him feel off-balance. "Yeah." He nodded. "That's all."

Thomas turned back to his computer and kept pretending to read.

* * *

At lunch, Daisy was still quiet and swollen-eyed.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked.

She shook her head. "I'm fine. It's just…hearing about him. Edward. It's just sad."

"Did you know him then?" Jimmy asked. "Edward Courtenay?"

"A bit," she said. "Not very well. They used to come in here – him and Thomas. And Sybil, sometimes. He were nice, you know."

"Were he and Mr Barrow…?" Ivy asked, tailing off. When Daisy didn't answer, she said, "_Together. You_ know."

Jimmy thought about that morning – Thomas' carefully constructed face, and the considered timbre of his voice, and had to look away.

"I don't know," Daisy said, with a shake of her head. Though Jimmy thought that probably meant _no. _If Thomas _had _been with Edward Courtenay, like _that, _then he imagined everyone would have known it. Subtle, Thomas was not.

"I mean, they were close – anyone could see that. He was always around, Edward. He used to walk around the grounds or wait in here until the tours were finished…and then, Thomas gave up his job for him, so I suppose" –

"And did he say that?" Jimmy interrupted. "That he was chucking it all in for _him, _this Edward bloke?"

"Well, no," Daisy said.

"Then you don't _know_," Jimmy said, with flawless logic.

"I suppose not, but – they went off together. Travelling and all sorts. And – none of us really expected to see Thomas here again."

"But you did – and he came back. So whatever it was, it mustn't have worked out," Jimmy pointed out.

Daisy stared at him. "That don't mean he's not _sad_ he's died."

"I didn't mean that. That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what _are _you trying to say?"

Jimmy didn't have an answer.

Daisy sniffled, and Alfred awkwardly tried to cheer her up. "Oh, come on now – a long face never solved anything. And – you didn't even know him, not really" –

"That's not the point!" The words burst out of Daisy, and Mrs Patmore looked up from the counter sharply. "It's just – he were so young, and it's – it's not _fair_. He had his whole life ahead of him, and now it's just…_gone. _Young people aren't supposed to just – die like that. It's not how it's supposed to be!"

Her face began to crumble, and she whirled around. "Daisy!" Alfred called after her, but she didn't even pause, heading past the counter and toward the kitchen. Mrs Patmore made to follow her, but stopped first and held up a warning finger. "If I find any of you has been upsetting that girl, today of all days – well…I won't be responsible for my actions!"

She bustled out after Daisy.

"What was that about?" Ivy asked. She laid a hand on Alfred's arm. "You were only trying to help."

"D'you think she's all right?" Alfred said, squinting after Daisy.

* * *

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to take another look at this," Mr Carson said, holding out several sheets of paper. Thomas took them.

Mr Carson remained.

"Is that all?" Thomas asked.

Mr Carson cleared his throat. He seemed a little ill at ease, but straightened his shoulders and said, "I just wanted to say, Thomas, that if you…needed some extra time…that that could be arranged."

Thomas looked up from the sheets he held in his hands. "Are you implying I can't do my job, Mr Carson?"

Jimmy looked between them as Thomas held Mr Carson's gaze challengingly, until finally he said, "No. That's not what I'm saying at all, Thomas."

"Then I can't see why you'd bring it up."

"As you wish," Mr Carson turned away, sigh rumbling through his words.

* * *

One morning, Jimmy found Miss O' Brien skulking around the office – clearly waiting for Thomas.

She started when she saw Jimmy. "Can I help you?" he asked, as he unlocked the door, affecting his least interested, most distant tone, as if she were a stranger.

"I just wanted to see if" –

"If what?"

"If Thomas were all right."

"Of course he is. Why wouldn't he be?" Jimmy lied.

She'd seemed off-balance before – actually, she'd seemed…_sincere, _almost, but at his tone, her usual impenetrable mask slipped back into place. "You don't know then," she said.

"Know what?" Jimmy didn't bother to keep his dislike out of his voice.

"About Edward Courtenay."

"Of course I know about him," Jimmy said.

"Then, if you know about him, then you should also know that there's no way that Thomas is fine."

"It's funny," Jimmy said, "I don't think I'd come to _you _for an update on Thomas' emotional state. Well, not an _honest _one, anyway." He held her gaze. "Thomas is fine."

"If you say so," she murmured, and glided away.

* * *

She was right, of course, and so was Mr Carson. Thomas put up a good front, but that was all it was – a front.

The one thing Thomas was, above all else, was _competent. _He did his job with a kind of confident, ostentatious ease, and so now, to have Mr Carson handing back work, and to have Mrs Hughes stopping Jimmy in the corridor and saying things like, "If you could just get Thomas to check those schedules he sent me – I don't think they're quite – _ready_ yet"…was just – embarrassing.

Embarrassing and…painful, in a strange way. Like no matter how he tried, and how much of an act he put on, Thomas couldn't hide his vulnerability.

And it was a burden for Jimmy – it felt like he was _carrying _Thomas, and it made his shoulders ache. He took copious notes during meetings for the Heritage Week, because Thomas sat there with an attentive look on his face, and a blank notebook, and the only time he really seemed properly _present _was when Mr Bates approached him and said, "I was sorry to hear about your friend, Thomas."

"I don't see why," Thomas had said coolly. "You didn't know him."

"I can still feel sorry about it, can't I?" Mr Bates said.

"Oh, I'm sure you can, Mr Bates," Thomas said, with a small, sharp smile. "Being as that's your natural state, and all."

Jimmy seemed to spend the rest of the week apologizing to people that Thomas was supposed to meet but hadn't, and cancelling anything that wasn't urgent, and trying to cast quick, surreptitious looks over anything Thomas sent to Mrs Hughes or Mr Carson.

He hated it. It was uncomfortable and humiliating, and it had nothing to do with him, even. He could almost have hated Thomas for putting him in this position, but…Thomas _hadn't _put him in _any_ position. He'd never asked Jimmy to do any of it. Sybil Crawley had. And even though she'd stood him a cup of tea, he really didn't feel like he owed _her _anything in particular. Certainly not this.

Except – he _had_ promised. Even if he hadn't known _then_ how it was going to be. Somehow, he couldn't _stop _himself from doing all those things, even as he hated doing them. It was strange - he and Thomas, well...they weren't really _anything _to each other - not anything that could explain _this_, anyway. They were _friends, _yes - but even friendship had its limits, and Jimmy felt as if he had passed those some time ago.

But he just gritted his teeth and kept going. And like a mantra, the whole time, he told himself that Thomas was going to be okay.

* * *

That morning began like any of the others. Jimmy dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, had breakfast, and made his way to Downton Abbey. Possibly Ivy and Alfred made an appearance at some point, but he wouldn't swear to it.

He was _tired. _The words he typed on his computer that morning ceased to make sense early on, and blurred into one another. At his desk, Thomas sat with a book open in front of him. But he looked like a still life – minutes went by before he turned a page.

_I don't know how much longer I can watch you do this, _Jimmy thought. He scraped his chair back and got to his feet. Thomas looked up, and Jimmy tried to smooth his face into neutrality. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee. D'you want one?"

At the café, he queued behind four old women with the same blue-rinsed perm, and ordered two coffees. But it wasn't until they were both placed on the counter that Edna, who was waiting behind him said, "I hope you're thirsty, because if one of those is for Mr Barrow, he's already gone."

"What? Gone where?"

Edna shrugged. "I don't know – I just bumped into him on the way to the car park."

"And you couldn't have told me this _before _I ordered?" Jimmy asked, clenching his fingers in annoyance. He wondered where Thomas could have gone.

"It's all right – I'll take that one," Daisy said, and picked up the second coffee. "Come on," she told Jimmy, and nodded toward the door of the café. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she called to Mrs Patmore.

"Oh – will you? How kind of you to let me know," Mrs Patmore said, but it sounded more like an routine grumble than an actual complaint.

Outside, Daisy pulled him around the side of the building, and then she sat on the ground, with her back to the wall. Jimmy followed suit.

"I'm worried," she said. Both hands were wrapped around her coffee, and she stared into the cup.

"He's fine," Jimmy said – it was his kneejerk response. It was mostly a defensive answer – but a small part of him felt like he could will it into being if he said it often enough. "Thomas will be fine."

"I'm not talking about _Thomas_. I'm talking about _you_," Daisy said.

"Me?" he frowned. "Why would you be worried about me?"

"Because…I know what it's like," she said, sounding ridiculously, painfully earnest. "I know what it's like when someone you like – you _care _about – is hurt…and you want to help them, you do, but…"

"But what?" he said, drawn in, despite himself.

She looked up, "But you can't. Not really. Or maybe you _think _you can, only…only it's doing what they want, and not what _you _want, and before you know it, you're all – tangled up and you can't get out of it, and – and then everything ends up even worse than when you started." Her voice rose and became more agitated as she finished, and Jimmy winced.

"What are you talking about?" he said.

"I just…" she stopped and put a hand on his arm, "It's good of you to try and take care of Thomas. But – don't forget to take care of _yourself_, too. Don't let yourself get – swept along. Because – sometimes that can _happen_." She stared at him, eyes wide and sad. "So, don't take it all on yourself, because no-one can do that for someone else – and…and be honest. Because if you're not, then…everyone ends up getting hurt."

"I won't," he said, finally. "And – Thomas is going to be fine."

She smiled at him, a bit, but he didn't know if she believed him.

* * *

Thomas didn't return for hours. Actually, Jimmy had completely given him up, and was shutting down his computer when he appeared.

Or rather, _they _appeared.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Jimmy demanded, as the Duke upended a slightly disheveled looking Thomas into his desk chair.

"Thomas decided to follow him home," he said. "I thought I'd do a good deed and return him, since he's clearly in no condition to drive."

There _was_ a kind of alcoholic miasma almost shimmering around Thomas. "How nice of you," Jimmy said.

"I thought so too," the Duke said. He leaned over Thomas a little. "You can call me when you decide to be fun, again," he said, and touched Thomas' face with his hand, almost tenderly. Jimmy found his fingers curling into fists.

The Duke straightened and aimed that impersonal smile at Jimmy. "I thought I'd let you sort him out – seems rather more your job description than mine. I'll have his car sent down tomorrow."

Jimmy didn't relax until the office door closed behind the Duke. Then he turned and looked at Thomas in silence for a few moments. "You know," he said, almost conversationally, "There was a time when I thought you were _clever_."

"Well, there was a time when I thought you were _gay_," Thomas retorted. "So I suppose that makes us even."

Jimmy laughed, startled, and Thomas managed a rueful smile.

"Were you together?" he found himself asking, because suddenly, he had to _know_. "You and Edward Courtenay? Is that what all this," he gestured at Thomas' rumpled state, " – is about?"

Thomas looked away for a moment, and Jimmy didn't think he was going to answer, but eventually, he said, "No. It wasn't like that."

"You left Downton because of him," Jimmy persisted.

That bitter edge of self-deprecation was in his voice. "Yes, but you know me – I only fall in love with people I can't have."

Jimmy closed his eyes for a second. In _love. _He groped for something, anything, to say, to full the sudden, awful silence. "You should think about taking up as the lead in a romantic comedy – with a habit like that." His voice sounded distant in his own ears.

Thomas laughed, but there wasn't any joy or humour in it. "And what'll we call the show..._Carry On Regardless?" _He stopped. "Doesn't seem very funny so far."

"No," Jimmy agreed, because he was _tired, _and he had an ache in his chest, and Thomas had been _in love _with Edward Courtenay, and the last thing any of this was, was funny.

Thomas looked at him for a moment before getting to his feet, a little unsteadily, and saying, "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

Outside, it was cool, and a light, crisp breeze was blowing. But Thomas didn't seem to feel it, just slowly led Jimmy around the front of Downton. It was deserted now, due to the late hour, and the sky above was overcast and grey.

"We used to come out here, sometimes," Thomas said vaguely. Jimmy didn't say anything. It was clear enough who 'we' meant.

"We went all around, really," he said, "But this is the part I remember best. And there was this one time...it's still so clear – I was standing here, and he was there," he barely gestured with his index finger, " – and I can _see _him. He was standing there, and talking – and I could have – reached out, touched him." Thomas' hands moved at his sides, as if he were reliving it, even as he told Jimmy about it. He darted a sidelong glance at Jimmy before saying, "Could've really pushed it and kissed him. But I didn't. Because I was happy with what I had."

He looked at Jimmy, and grinned a skeletal kind of grin. "And you know me – I'm _never_ happy with what I have." He stared off into the distance. "And it wasn't that I didn't want _more, _but – I didn't want to risk it. Not then. Not yet. And we had time, I thought…"

He stopped, and swallowed. "Turns out, there's never really a good time to sort out a relationship when one person is trying to come to terms with going blind. Tends to get a bit confusing. That's why I left, you know. He said he had to be alone for a while – learn how to do things for himself, before he could figure out how he felt about me. He didn't want me waiting around for someone who might never be able to give me what I wanted." Casually, Thomas said, "Shame really. I was quite good at it, after all the practice."

Jimmy looked at him, and only half absorbed the words. The breeze blew Thomas' dark hair over his forehead, and he looked very young to Jimmy, as if he were exactly the same person who'd stood next to Edward Courtenay, wanting more, but holding himself back, trying so hard to be _careful – _which said it all, really, given Thomas' tendency toward headlong stupidity when it came to matters of attraction.

"The thing is," Thomas continued, still in that same steady voice, "I can't get past that. I just – keep remembering that day. It keeps going through my head, and I…can't get past it." He looked right at Jimmy. "I'm sorry."

Jimmy began to nod, almost unconsciously, because he knew what was coming. It was there, in Thomas' apology…in the fact that Thomas was explaining this to him at _all_. Because he knew Thomas, and this was – Thomas' resignation.

And it was for the best, really. For him, and for Jimmy. They certainly couldn't keep going on like _this._

_Don't take it all on yourself, _Jimmy thought. _Because no-one can do that for somebody else. _It was sound advice. It was the only _sensible_ thing to do.

So Jimmy didn't know why, instead of letting Thomas finish, his heart gave one wild thump – and he found himself stepping forward, and cupping Thomas' face between his hands…and leaning up to kiss him.

It only lasted one breathless moment, Thomas' mouth soft and startled against his, before Jimmy stepped back, and pushed his shaking hands into his pockets.

Thomas stared at him. "What" – he began, but didn't seem able to articulate anything else.

Jimmy tried to keep his own voice steady as he said, "Well, you've got a new memory now."

He took another step back. "Come on," he said. "I'll drive you home."


	22. Chapter 22

Thomas was very quiet in the car, and he kept flicking quick, sidelong glances at Jimmy as he drove. Jimmy, for his part, pretended to ignore this and concentrated on the road.

When he pulled up outside Thomas' house, it took Thomas a moment to reach for the door handle. And even then he hesitated, before saying, casually, "I'll see you tomorrow."

He didn't look at Jimmy as he said it, but the line of his shoulders was tense, and Jimmy felt something in his chest twist that Thomas should need to _check_. Thomas should be able to rely on _something. _Thomas should be able to rely on _him. _

"See you tomorrow," he agreed, trying to give every word its due, to make each one heavy and incontrovertible with truth. Because of _course _Thomas would see him tomorrow.

Thomas half-smiled at him before he got out of the car. Jimmy counted it as a victory.

Then he went home.

He assembled a dinner from the leftovers in the fridge and ate. He had a shower. He sat on the couch between Ivy and Alfred and watched the late film. It was all very routine.

Except – the leftovers didn't taste like anything at all. And he stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, and even so, it took him a minute to notice the sudden temperature change. Then, sitting on the sofa, he kept his eyes attentively on the screen for the entire film, but he couldn't keep track of the plot. It was strange – he could hear the actors perfectly, but there was something that kept him from fully losing himself in the story, as if their voices didn't quite match the movement of their lips. Jimmy would have put it down to bad dubbing, but when Ivy leaned across him to talk to Alfred, the same thing happened.

He watched the film to the end anyway, and then drifted off to bed at the same time as the others. Ivy said something (in that strange, underwater tone that Jimmy had to strain to hear) about not being _that _tired, and if anyone else was up for another film, she could be persuaded into staying up a bit later…but when Alfred yawned and shook his head she immediately changed her mind, so Jimmy maybe hadn't heard her right in the first place.

He didn't pull down the covers of his bed, just lay on top of them, and stared up at his ceiling in the darkness.

He didn't regret it.

The kiss ran through his mind on a constant loop – had done so all evening. It was just _there_, underlying everything, like a song on the radio turned up just loud enough to impinge on his consciousness, even when he was trying to think of other things.

But he didn't regret it.

He searched himself carefully, mentally patted himself down, looking for any hidden pockets of misgiving or discomfort, but found none. What he'd done – the kiss…it just _was. _As actions went, it had been fairly small, but it felt larger – like an incontrovertible fact, an indisputable truth – like gravity. Regretting it would be like regretting that he breathed oxygen, or walked on his legs instead of his hands.

Still, even though his mind kept returning to the kiss, it also kept _sliding over it, _in a way. Acknowledging it, but only on a surface level. Behind the kiss, there was a rickety dam, just barely keeping a vast flood of _something_ at bay. It wasn't _regret, _Jimmy knew _that…_but he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to risk drowning in whatever it _was_.

He didn't regret it – and that was enough to know.

* * *

He felt slightly less sanguine the morning after. _What, _he wondered as he ate breakfast, _would Thomas __expect__?_

He'd _kissed _Thomas – and while that felt like – like a _symbol _to him almost, full of meaning but at the same time entirely _complete _in itself…he had no idea where it led, or even if it necessarily led to _anything _else_. _

Thomas, on the other hand, might see it as a prelude to something _more_.

" – too sweet," Alfred declared, then asked Jimmy, "What do you think?" He brandished a gingham topped jar of marmalade in his hand, like a bizarre exhibit A in a murder trial.

"I've given up thinking – I'm trying to be more like _you_," Jimmy snapped, as sharply as he could, just so that Alfred would leave him alone.

"Well, I'm open to being convinced," Ivy said, "Though…I rather like _sweet _things," she smiled at Alfred, but he was frowning down at the jar and missed it. Her smile faded and she looked down at the table, almost mumbling, "…so it might take you a while."

"I'm sure Daisy and I could do a better job," Alfred decided. "I'll say it to her later today."

_Of course, _Jimmy thought, as Alfred's blather about marmalade receded to an annoying itch in the background, _there was __also__ the possibility that Thomas might have no expectations at all._

He'd been – _in love _with Edward Courtenay, after all, eaten up by grief since he'd heard about his death. It wasn't very likely that a _kiss _would completely change Thomas' focus. Probably, it wouldn't change anything at all.

Strangely, this possibility upset him even more than the first.

" – and maybe even a pudding," Alfred finished thoughtfully.

* * *

Jimmy stared at the office door for a long moment before striding forward and opening it with a firm, deliberate twist of his wrist.

Thomas looked up from behind his desk, and they both stopped dead. Jimmy felt colour rushing to his face, and he couldn't help it – he looked from Thomas' eyes to his mouth, before his gaze shot upwards again.

Finally, Thomas cleared his throat. "Jimmy – hello," he said, too politely, as if he were greeting a stranger. His fingers curled around his pen, gripping it as if it might disappear.

"Thomas," Jimmy said. It came out in the same, too-polite tone as Thomas' greeting. He moved toward his computer – a little awkwardly, as if he'd forgotten how.

There was a brief silence as he settled himself, before Thomas said, warily, "Jimmy – about yesterday" –

Jimmy looked up at him and when their eyes met, Thomas stopped abruptly. There was a crease between Thomas' eyebrows and his face looked tight with tiredness – or tension. Jimmy felt a pang in his chest, a sudden and odd desire to reach out and touch Thomas' face, smooth all Thomas' worry away with his fingertips.

Luckily, he kept his hands firmly by his sides. Things were confusing enough. But his eyes kept moving over Thomas' face, and he found himself saying, "It's alright."

If anything, the line between Thomas' eyebrows deepened. "It is?" he said, in a careful voice.

"Yes," Jimmy told him. "Don't – don't _worry_ about it."

Thomas just looked at him for a moment. "If you say so." He didn't sound like he agreed, so much as that he was just going along with Jimmy.

Jimmy changed the subject, slightly, uncomfortable. "How's your head?"

Thomas pulled a small, but expressive face. "It's been better."

"Well maybe next time you have an emotional crisis, you shouldn't go drinking with _Philip,_" Jimmy couldn't stop himself from saying.

"Right." Thomas' eyebrows rose, and he winced. "What _should_ I do then?"

"Go drinking with me instead."

"All right," Thomas said lightly. "It could be worse, I suppose."

It felt as if he wasn't just talking about this new and improved plan for coping in times of stress – and he kept his gaze on Jimmy for another moment before dropping it.

_It wasn't that I didn't want __more__,_ Jimmy remembered absently. _But I didn't want to risk it._

* * *

Mistakes bloomed like flowers every time he tried to work – though Jimmy kept moving his fingers across the keyboard gamely. Thomas appeared to give up all pretense, tapping his pen against his desk and staring off blankly…though Jimmy's skin prickled with awareness. He could have sworn that every time he bent his head, Thomas' eyes were on him – he could _feel _it, almost like a physical touch. But any time he glanced up, Thomas' gaze was fixed firmly on his desk.

For his part, Jimmy tried not to look at Thomas – because whenever he _did, _his eyes were drawn by a kind of magnetic compulsion to Thomas' mouth – _remembering_. It was unbelievable to Jimmy that the touch of his lips to Thomas' – a touch that had lasted scant seconds – should have ingrained itself so indelibly on his mind. But in spite of his disbelief, every time he looked at Thomas, he _felt_ it.

He drifted to lunch, and while it should have been a relief to escape from the intensity of his and Thomas' office, in actuality, everything else seemed blurred at the edges – muted and not quite real.

Alfred mentioned the marmalade to Daisy, who said, "D'you really think we're ready for that?" and frowned, as if marmalade were a lifetime commitment instead of a popular fruit preserve.

"Of course I do – I'm asking, aren't I?"

Daisy thought about it. "I don't know. The reason most small businesses fail in their first year is that they try to expand too quickly."

"Yeah, but – we're not most small businesses," Alfred argued. Mrs Patmore, though she was several tables away, snorted and said, "Y'can say that again."

" – and this is a winner! I can feel it – so…why _not _go for it?"

"It's risky, branching out when we've not got a secure customer base yet," Daisy told him, though she did look swayed by his enthusiasm.

"Think about it – _Mason and Nugent's World Famous Marmalade,"_ Alfred said. "We can do it – I know we can. I believe in this – I believe in _us._" He caught hold of Daisy's hand, and both Ivy and Daisy took an identical sharp breath in. Alfred didn't seem to notice. "Just – tell me you'll think about it."

Daisy stared down at their joined hands for a moment. "The thing is," she said. "This is…really important to me, Alfred. And – I don't want to risk what we have chasing after something that might not be a good idea. I don't want to change all my plans on – on some _whim."_

Some part of this penetrated Jimmy's consciousness as he picked at his toasted sandwich. The melted cheese had hardened long ago. Daisy had a point, he thought absently. Why would you risk something you'd invested in so _heavily_, that meant so _much_ to you – for something that might not pan out, in the end? He'd never thought all that highly of Alfred's reasoning skills, but this one just seemed obvious.

"Are we still talking about marmalade?" Ivy asked, in a high, thin kind of voice. She hadn't taken her eyes off Daisy and Alfred's joined hands. "Only – people don't usually get so worked up about preserves, as a general rule."

Daisy and Alfred bestowed twin looks of confusion upon her. Daisy slowly pulled her hand out of Alfred's. "I _will_ think about it," she said. "But…don't expect my answer right away. And – before I make my decision, I'll need to see a recipe – and it'd better be good."

Solemnly, she made her way back to the counter. Alfred watched her go.

"Well, that was a bit" – Ivy began, but Alfred was already scrambling to his feet. "Sorry," he said vaguely, "But I've got to start figuring out the kind of marmalade that Daisy can't say no to."

He strode toward the door of the café, with fruit-preserve induced purposefulness.

"Right," Ivy said in a small voice. She stirred her soup half-heartedly, and sighed. Then she looked across the table at Jimmy. "_You're_ very quiet," she said.

"So are you," he shot back. "Are you pining or something?"

For some reason, she flushed a dark red. "Well it's easy known that's not what's ailing _you_," she retorted. "Those of us with actual _hearts_ know you'd _never."_

* * *

Back in the office, the air seemed to buzz, like it was full of bees, and Jimmy managed to mangle several more documents and phone calls. At least there was a kind of productiveness to his sudden incompetence, he thought grimly.

Thomas continued to not-work, though he seemed to have finally located a little more concern for outward appearances, because now he had several sheets of paper on his desk – and he held his pen in his hand, as if in readiness to take notes. However, he never wrote anything, and he played absently with it as he stared down at the blank paper.

Jimmy watched him twirl his pen between his fingers. Thomas had nice hands. He glanced quickly away whenever Thomas looked up.

Time hardly seemed to move at all, and so it came as a complete surprise to Jimmy when he realized that it was almost twenty minutes after he usually finished up. Thomas clearly hadn't realized it either, since he was still sitting and frowning slightly at the spotless pages in front of him.

Still, even if Thomas hadn't been _himself _today…at least he hadn't brought up the idea of resigning again. Jimmy felt a swell of relief at that, as he shut down his computer and stood. "Well," he said, strangely reluctant to leave, "I suppose I should get going."

Thomas slowly got to his feet as well, coming out from behind his desk, as if Jimmy were a guest he needed to escort to the door. "Right," he said politely.

They stood there, looking at each other. As he studied the angles and planes of Thomas' face (which was fine, because it wasn't as if Thomas wasn't doing the exact same thing), something struck Jimmy. "It's my day off tomorrow," he said. "So you won't see me. Because it's my day off."

"Oh," Thomas said, and nodded attentively. For some reason the dip of his head drew Jimmy's attention to Thomas' shoulders and chest.

"Just so you know," Jimmy clarified. His mouth was very dry, and he swallowed.

"Good. Okay." Thomas didn't take his eyes off Jimmy, eyes tracing him from forehead to chin.

"Okay," Jimmy repeated. "Well – that's all. So…I should…go."

"Yes," Thomas agreed.

"Goodbye," Jimmy said – and hesitated.

It was the hesitation that did it.

He wasn't sure who moved first – but the next thing he knew, his back was hitting the door with a muffled thump, and Thomas' hands were gripping his waist, while Jimmy was grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, pulling Thomas down to meet his mouth – and they were kissing.

It was nothing like yesterday, which had been short and painfully sweet and very nearly chaste. _This_ was hot and frantic and demanding. Thomas' mouth moved against his and their tongues slid together and it was too much and not enough all at once. Jimmy groaned in the back of his throat and his hands tightened on Thomas' collar – he was probably half-strangling Thomas at this point, but he couldn't help it. He kissed Thomas back even more desperately to make up for it.

They were pressed together all down the lengths of their bodies – as close as they could physically get, though it didn't stop them from pushing against each other, almost jostling in a fruitless effort to get even nearer – like they each wanted to climb inside the other's skin.

Jimmy's heart pounded in his ears, and he had to pull his mouth from Thomas' because it was so good he felt breathless. He turned his head to the side and gasped out meaningless sounds while Thomas kissed down his neck. Jimmy managed to unclench his hands from their deathgrip on Thomas' collar and slid them into Thomas' hair, holding him in place, only to pull Thomas back to his mouth a few moments later, when in spite of his continued breathlessness, he found he couldn't stand the separation any longer.

Thomas' hands clutched at his back, and squeezed his shoulders and his arms, too tight, before rubbing roughly over his chest and down to the waistband of his trousers. Jimmy arched into the touch and then it was Thomas' turn to pull back, panting. Jimmy chased his mouth mindlessly, bestowing short, fierce kisses on Thomas' lips, as Thomas' hands untucked Jimmy's shirt from his trousers. The feeling of Thomas' fingers brushing against his bare skin made Jimmy shiver, but just as Thomas' hands came down firmly on his waist and Jimmy surged forward, hooking his fingers around the back of Thomas' neck and pressing his lips against Thomas' so hard it almost hurt –

– his mobile rang.

It was like an alarm clock, blaring through the dreamlike fever of lust that had held sway in the office for the last…however long it had been. They both jerked apart (resulting in Jimmy knocking the back of his head against the wall), as if Jimmy's mobile were sentient, and capable of disapproval.

As his mobile continued to ring, Jimmy stared at Thomas. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his hair was disheveled and his collar had been tugged askew by Jimmy's hands, and he looked, for the first time, the same way he made Jimmy feel.

_Oh, _Jimmy just had time to think, _so __that's__ what I always – _before his phone stopped ringing and it was just him and Thomas, staring at each other in the silence of their too-small office, their breathing audible. Jimmy felt _relieved, _in a way - that thought had been too dizzingly terrifying to finish.

"Well," he said eventually. "I'd better…" he twitched his hand vaguely toward the door. His mobile beeped, as if in approval.

Thomas nodded, a jerky motion.

He couldn't look away from Thomas' eyes, so he fumbled behind him for the doorknob, twisting it and stepping backwards through the open door, eyes locked on Thomas' until he was finally outside the office. Then, after he pushed the door closed, he had to lean his forehead against the cool wood for a moment until he collected himself enough to move.

As he made his way to his car, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket to see a missed call from Alfred – followed by a text message asking him to pick up four lemons on his way home, for a marmalade experiment.

Jimmy gave his request precisely the amount of attention it deserved. He deleted the text, and drove straight home.

* * *

Um, so I guess next chapter is when this thing moves to the M section. I don't know whether to apologise that it's not happening in this chapter, or to apologise that it _will _be happening in the next chapter...sorry either way, I guess! :)


	23. Chapter 23

Damn - writing smut is hard! I have no idea how some of you guys do it.

* * *

Of course, almost as soon as he got home, he regretted _not_ buying the lemons. Mostly because not doing so left him with a frustrating lack of things to lob at Alfred's thick head.

" – wanted to poach the fruit tonight," Alfred finished, with a reproachful look.

"Then you should have bought them yourself," Jimmy told him. His fingers kept curling and uncurling, like he didn't know what to do with them.

"I don't see why you couldn't get them," Alfred argued. "The shop's on your way home."

"Yes," Jimmy said. "It is. I noticed that when I drove past it."

"And I didn't _know _I needed them until I realized that a girl like Daisy isn't going to go for just any old marmalade" –

"Never stopped her before," Jimmy muttered, eyes sweeping over Alfred. He pressed his lips together – they felt sensitive, still tingling at the memory of twenty minutes previous.

" – and then I realized. Lemon and ginger_!_" Alfred looked between Jimmy and Ivy, as if he expected a clap of thunder to follow this pronouncement. At their unmoved faces, he repeated, "_Lemon _and _ginger."_

Enlightenment failed to dawn.

"Think about it," he pleaded. "It satisfies tradition, but it's unexpected too – bright and zingy, with a subtle hint of warmth and sweetness. It's _perfect. _It's exactly the kind of marmalade a girl like Daisy can't say no to."

"Well, she's not going to get the chance, is she?" Jimmy said, unkindly. "Not tonight, anyway."

"I just didn't want to make her wait," Alfred said.

Jimmy snorted. "For a change."

Alfred frowned. "What's that supposed to" –

"I'll do it," Ivy interrupted the bickering, face set. "I'll go down to the shop – it's probably still open."

"Would you, Ivy?" Alfred asked. He sounded grateful, though Jimmy noted that _he _apparently hadn't planned on speeding off into the evening on a quest for ovoid citrus fruit, despite his loud protests over 'making Daisy wait.' Absently, Jimmy straightened his still untucked shirt. The ghostly sensation of Thomas' fingers stroking against his waist made his skin shiver.

"You want to make marmalade for Daisy, and – and I'm not going to stand in your way," Ivy said, chin up. "Not if it's what you really want."

At the door, she hesitated. "Just...I hope Daisy appreciates how lucky she is, is all."

"Of course she will," Alfred assured her. "It's a very good recipe. I'll save you a jar."

Jimmy rolled his eyes and escaped to his room, where marmalade was merely something to be spread on toast, and not a tortured metaphor. Though, this was perhaps because what had happened with Thomas entirely defied metaphor, simile, and even the bounds of reason and sanity.

Him kissing Thomas had been one thing – Thomas kissing him _back _was something else entirely. Something that couldn't be safely contained, like a jar of marmalade. Jimmy had the feeling that no matter how hard he tried to tighten the lid on this particular problem, it was going to insist on bursting free.

Accordingly, it was time to face up to it. Jimmy sat at the foot of his bed and then flopped backwards. It was _possible, _he slowly conceded as he stared at the ceiling, that there was a…sexual aspect to this kissing Thomas business.

_His back against the door, Thomas' hands gripping his sides, his own hands in Thomas' hair, and Thomas' mouth just under his ear, lips marking a trail down his neck – _

His stomach flipped at the memory. All right – _fine_, Jimmy was forced to swiftly amend. There was _probably _a sexual aspect to this kissing Thomas business.

Sadly, that was about as far as he got. It wasn't that he didn't _want _to face up to the truth of the situation (although…he _didn't_ particularly want to face up to the truth of the situation) – it was just that the _sexual aspect _kept beckoning him down side streets that ended with Jimmy imagining Thomas' body over his, pressing him down against the mattress. It was a thought terrifying and tantalizing in equal measure – and he squirmed uncomfortably on the bed, trying to push the idea out of his mind.

Except it remained there, like a stone – unmovable, compelling. It made his body feel heavy, and his heart beat fast…and it wasn't all fear. It certainly, and very obviously, wasn't disgust. He shifted on the mattress again, and tried to will his physical response away. He did let his hands move down, fingers digging into his thighs, but he refused to allow them to wander any further, much to the disappointment of his erection.

But – no. He could already barely cope with the situation as it stood – a little kissing (…a lot of kissing) in the office, and the dam holding back all Jimmy's unexamined, unwanted feelings had already sprung a sizeable leak. If he actually _got off _to thoughts of Thomas, said dam would be nothing more than splintered wood and a torrent of suddenly unconstrained – and probably lethal – emotions.

_Of course, _a voice in his head helpfully decided to point out, _you __already__ got off to thoughts of Thomas…back when the Duke was still in the picture…remember?_

Going by its line of reasoning, Jimmy was pretty certain he could pinpoint _which _part of his anatomy this dissenting voice was speaking on behalf of. Not that it was going to change his decision at all.

_That, _Jimmy argued, _was different. _He'd done it, yes, but he hadn't been aware of the – the _ramifications _of what he'd done. He rubbed his palms against his thighs, just to give them something to do.

_Still, _the voice continued thoughtfully, _aware or not, you __did__ it. More than once, actually. So really, abstaining __now__ isn't going to do much good, is it? When you look at it like that, the harm's already been done. _

He threw an arm over his face. Brilliant. Faced with the possibility of impending crisis, and it turned out his cock was a fatalist. Well, that was _just _what Jimmy needed.

* * *

When he woke the next morning, after a less than refreshing sleep, Jimmy was relieved that it was his day off. A day away from Downton would give him some space and much-needed breathing room…the opportunity to take a few steps back from this – _thing – _with Thomas. It was perfect.

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Ivy asked, as she set down her juice glass.

"What? _Nothing_," Jimmy said.

"Then _stop,_" she said, and reached across the table to still the motion of his hands. "That's driving me mad."

Of course, he reminded himself, Ivy was dealing with – _something – _as regards Alfred. She was obviously feeling testy (as would _anyone_ who had recently discovered suppressed feelings for _Alfred_, Jimmy supposed) and was taking it out on him.

"D'you mind not doing that thing with your feet, too?" Alfred chimed in, with a frown. "It's very annoying."

Jimmy didn't know what_ Alfred's_ excuse was.

* * *

A day where he didn't have to deal with Thomas. It was exactly what he needed. When Ivy and Alfred left, and the house was quiet, he went back to bed. Only to get up less than half an hour later. His body refused to take lying down in the spirit of rest that Jimmy intended.

He had a shower, but that didn't relax him either. Actually, it only served to wake his body up further, and with it, that voice that pointed out, in wheedling fashion, that he was _already_ naked and would be cleaning himself _anyway._ He scrubbed his hair vigorously, and refused to listen.

The important thing was, at least he was away from Downton. It would be dangerous to be around Thomas in this frame of mind. A little distance would help him to get hold of himself, and things could proceed as normal tomorrow.

He made himself lunch, and then watched television. Well, he tried to make himself watch television, but twenty minutes later he found himself pacing aimlessly around the coffee table, mobile in his hand, while on screen, three women discussed agoraphobia.

Thomas hadn't called or texted, though Jimmy had thought, last night, that he might. He'd finally come to the decision (at two o' clock in the morning) that he shouldn't answer – for _Thomas' _sake, as much as his own. It would be far crueler to be kind, in this case, he had concluded. It might give Thomas false hope.

He checked his mobile again, although it hadn't made a sound. Just in case. But his screen remained blank – devoid of messages and missed calls.

Well. That was good. It showed that he and Thomas were on the same page. And why wouldn't they be? After all, what had happened…maybe _everything _that had happened since Thomas had first met him…wasn't even really about _Jimmy_. Thomas had been – was_ still, _probably_ – _in love with Edward Courtenay.

Jimmy rubbed absently at his chest, which suddenly felt sore, as if he'd pulled a muscle. What was it that Thomas had said when he was seeing the Duke? _A distraction, if you must know._

Well, if the _Duke_ had been a distraction from how things had ended with Edward Courtenay…then it stood to reason that Jimmy had been nothing more than a distraction too. Jimmy grimaced and rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest again. At least Thomas was self-aware about it…maybe even self-aware enough to pull back this time, and deal with the situation in a more mature, reasoned fashion.

Of course, Jimmy considered with glum honesty, this was _Thomas _he was thinking about – who was not exactly famed for his sexual restraint, or his impulse control. And maybe…_maybe _his sudden silence could be put down to the fact that the Duke had always been a far more _willing _distraction than Jimmy. After all, the last time Thomas had wanted to be sidetracked from his grief, he'd slipped out of the office and straight to _him_.

Jimmy clenched his hand around his phone, thinking about Thomas searching out the Duke again, and the Duke languidly taking advantage, and depositing Thomas back at Downton afterwards, as if he were returning a borrowed toy. Only Jimmy wouldn't be there this time.

The need to call Thomas to make sure he was at work, warred with the fear of calling Thomas and finding that he was _not _at work. As Jimmy wrestled with indecision, on the television, the women moved on to discussing the benefits of egg-white omelettes.

In the end, he didn't call. It was for the best. Even if Thomas _was _with the Duke, well…that at least took some of the pressure off Jimmy, didn't it? He stared doggedly ahead of him, where the egg-white women had transformed into two bank robbers and a long-suffering girlfriend, trying to pull off one last heist. Or maybe planning a wedding – the action on the screen was frustratingly difficult to make sense of.

Though, this might have been partly due to the insistent, neverending chant at the back of his mind that repeated, over and over, _be there for him if he needs it, be there for him if he needs it…_

He told himself it was Sybil Crawley's voice, and as someone who wasn't aware of the full complications of the situation, he was in no way obliged to listen to her. Accordingly, he saw the heist/wedding through to the bitter end. Then he watched a documentary about lions. Or maybe cuttlefish.

_Then, _five minutes before Ivy and Alfred were due home, he left, walked in to the village to buy a bottle of whisky, and continued on to Thomas' house.

* * *

Jimmy stood for a few minutes in front of the sizeable white-painted building. It was nice, though, knowing Thomas, that wasn't a surprise. Finally, when he couldn't delay any longer (Jimmy had taken the old woman who had asked, "Are you all right, love?" as she passed with a four-legged ball of fluff as a sign that he might need to make some kind of move) he opened the gate, marched up the path, and knocked.

The tense, keyed up feeling inside Jimmy dissipated somewhat when Thomas opened the door (because if he was at home, then he clearly wasn't somewhere else with the _Duke) _only to return almost immediately (because if he wasn't somewhere else with the Duke – then he was _here, _with Jimmy).

"Jimmy," Thomas said. He stared, clearly taken aback to see him – and the sight of him looking so off-balance helped settled Jimmy somewhat.

"Are you going to let me in?" Jimmy asked, and with a jerky little movement, Thomas moved back, and he stepped inside. Without waiting for further invitation, Jimmy wandered down the hallway and in the first door on the right, which turned out to be the sitting room. He sat on the black leather sofa and looked around. Thomas' house was modern and spacious, with comfortable, clearly expensive furniture. They would, Jimmy decided, be doing all their drinking here from now on.

Which reminded him…he fished the whisky bottle out from under his arm. Thomas had followed him into the sitting room, though he stood warily at the other end of the sofa. "Jimmy," he said, "Why are you here?"

"I'm making sure you follow my advice," Jimmy said, and brandished the bottle of whisky like the foolproof alibi it was.

Thomas' mouth quirked a little, but when he asked, "You think I'm going through an emotional crisis right now?" he sounded as if he really wanted to hear Jimmy's answer.

"I think I bought a bottle of whisky, and you're not going to turn down a drink," Jimmy told him. He tipped his chin up challengingly. "Are you?"

It took Thomas a moment to reply, but when he accepted, it was with the same air of challenge. "All right. If you take your coat off."

It was a reasonable request – but Thomas said it like a dare, and Jimmy himself felt a strange reluctance, as if in shedding his outerwear he was shedding a layer of protection against…against _what_? He shook his head and divested himself of his coat, carelessly slinging it over the back of the sofa. Then he raised his eyebrows at Thomas, who looked back at him, face impenetrable, and said, "I'll get the glasses."

Jimmy leaned back against the sofa, eyes continuing to skate vaguely around the room. Thomas reappeared with two glasses, which he set down on the coffee table, before pouring a generous measure of whisky into each. He handed one to Jimmy, before tipping his own glass against it, in a silent toast. Then he sat back on the sofa, his right arm stretching across the back of it – curling around behind where Jimmy sat. He wasn't _touching _Jimmy, but Jimmy felt very aware of Thomas' arm, all the same, and had to fight the urge to look behind him. Instead, he smiled, a smile that didn't feel quite comfortable on his face, and tried not to look at the line of Thomas' neck as he swallowed once, twice, three times, and then gently placed his empty glass on the coffee table. Thomas tilted his head to the side and asked, "Another?"

Jimmy stared at him – the still unreadable cast of his features. "Yes," he said, and swiftly downed the rest of his drink, feeling the burn of it all the way to his stomach.

There had been some sort of plan, he thought, as Thomas filled his glass again. There still _was, _he hastily reassured himself – it was just that lately, Thomas had a way of making him feel like things were on the point of spiraling out of control. Not that that meant that they _were. _It was just a feeling.

He would stay, and drink with Thomas – like a friend. And then, he would go home. If Thomas wanted to talk, well, they could talk. And, if Thomas wanted to get very drunk (which, given how quickly he had finished that first drink, looked like a distinct possibility), Jimmy would stay and make sure he was okay, and _then _go home.

Of course, Jimmy hadn't eaten in hours, and by the second drink he was feeling soft around the edges, and by the third, he was so _very_ aware of Thomas' body, and the way it was _not_ _touching_ _his_ at any point, that it seemed perfectly reasonable to sit on the floor instead.

"I'm closer this way," he explained, gesturing toward the whisky. As if to underline his point, he picked it up, and took a drink straight from the bottle.

He didn't expect Thomas to look down at him for a moment before promptly following suit. "You're right," he said, quite calmly. "Good idea."

And he pulled the whisky from Jimmy's left hand and took a swig, as Jimmy had. Jimmy watched Thomas place his mouth on the rim of the glass bottle, exactly where his own mouth had been, and it made something jerk down low in his stomach.

Then Thomas placed the bottle back on the coffee table, and turned his body even more toward Jimmy, who only had time to feel a moment of unease as Thomas' leg slid against his – before Thomas lowered his head, pressing his face into the space between Jimmy's neck and shoulder.

Jimmy stiffened, but Thomas didn't appear to take any notice, and his head remained resolutely where it was. They stayed like that for a moment, before Thomas said, almost conversationally, "Jimmy – why are you here?"

His voice vibrated against Jimmy's skin. Jimmy suppressed a shudder at the sensation and said, "I told you, I" –

"Is it a pity fuck?" Thomas wondered. He rubbed his nose and mouth against Jimmy's neck – nuzzling into him. "Is that what you're offering?"

Jimmy was fairly sure that all he'd been offering was the finest cheap whisky lack of money could buy – but it was hard to think when Thomas started to press soft kisses down his throat. "I" – he cleared his throat, "That's not" –

"Am I supposed to say no? Is that it?" Thomas asked, and this time Jimmy felt the barest scrape of teeth against his skin. He forced his lips firmly together so that he wouldn't moan. Of course, that meant that he couldn't answer the question, either – though Thomas really didn't seem to _need _an answer. "You're making a _gesture," _he continued, "and you think I'm going to hold back" – he paused to kiss just under Jimmy's ear, " – and be noble."

Jimmy really hadn't thought his visit out in those terms. He could hardly follow the gist of Thomas' conjecture right _now_, with Thomas actively talking him through it, step by step – though that had more to do with the fact that Thomas' mouth was multi-tasking than the complicated nature of the explanation.

"The thing is," Thomas continued, voice low, but still quite conversational in tone, "I'm not very interested in being noble. I can't say it's ever," he kissed the corner of Jimmy's jaw, "been one of my particular ambitions. So – if you're expecting me to come over all gallant and tell you _thanks but no thanks, _well, you might have made a mistake, there. Because I'm not going to."

He caught Jimmy's face in his hands, and finally kissed his mouth. Jimmy's lips parted immediately, and his tongue met Thomas' without hesitation. A wave of heat washed through him, and his fingertips skated uncertainly along Thomas' waist before pressing firmly against his back.

Because there was no point prevaricating now – he was hard, hard for Thomas, _because of _Thomas…and it hit him then, with a clarity so sharp it could have drawn blood – that they were going to _have sex now_.

It was there in the way that Thomas kissed him – tender but somehow lascivious at the same time, lush with sexual intent. It would be stupid to imagine this scenario panning out in any other way. He'd known – _some_ part of Jimmy had known before he'd even walked in the door, before he'd even left his own house, that this was how things were going to end up – even if he'd tried to disguise it with cheap whisky and platonic friendship.

It wasn't fair, and it probably wasn't the right thing to do – but if Thomas was looking for a distraction, well…it _had_ to be _him. _And it _was _– because Thomas was touching _him_, was kissing him _now_. Jimmy curled his left hand around Thomas' hip, while his right palm slid along the planes of Thomas' back. Jimmy could feel the heat of his body through his shirt, and it struck him again with unstoppable force that _he and Thomas were going to have sex, _a terrifyingly, exhilaratingly _inescapable _prospect, that made his heart sing loudly in his ears –

This was, of course, the point where Thomas pulled back and told him, firmly, "Go home, Jimmy."

He stared at Thomas, Thomas who was _of course _not going to be noble – as he'd been careful to state, upfront and baldly – and was seized by a mixture of frustrated fondness that made his bones almost _ache._

He tried not to let any of it show, as he said, as matter-of-factly as he could, "Well, it looks like I was right, after all." He cleared his throat to rid his voice of a slight wobble. "O' Brien's nowhere in sight, and you're _still _bloody_ rubbish_ at this" –

The words had hardly left his mouth before Thomas was kissing him again, in protest, or just because he'd finally had enough – Jimmy didn't know, or care. He kissed back blindly, tugging Thomas closer, and then downwards, as he lowered himself to the hardwood floor, which felt solid as reality against his back. Their legs tangled together, and one of Thomas' thighs slid between his. The tight feeling in his stomach became impossibly tighter, and he had to thrust up against Thomas, because his cock was so hard, and Thomas' thigh was a _masterpiece _of friction. Thomas rocked back against him, and the feeling of Thomas' erection against his hip, coupled with the idea that Thomas was getting off on _him, _stoked Jimmy even higher.

Thomas tore his mouth away, though his hips kept moving against Jimmy, a barely there but constant action that drove his cock against Jimmy's body. Jimmy pushed his own hips upwards, experimentally, and Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. "I have a bed, you know," he said, and he might have sounded amused, except for how fast and hard he was breathing. "We could" –

Jimmy surged upwards, hooking his hand around Thomas' neck and kissing him, drawing him back down. His tongue stroked crudely, messily, against Thomas', and Thomas made a sound in the back of his throat and pressed Jimmy down against the floor. Jimmy bucked up against Thomas' thigh, wildly demanding release, and yanked at Thomas' shirt until he had it tugged out of his trousers. He slid his hands up Thomas' back, barely taking in the feel of warm, smooth skin, the shift of muscle under his palms as Thomas thrust against him.

He had to pull away from Thomas' mouth, both to breathe, and to concentrate more fully on the feeling pulsing through him, pulling taut, to breaking point as he rubbed against Thomas' body. He dug his fingers into Thomas' shoulders and let his head fall to the side – but Thomas, who was holding himself just barely above Jimmy with his forearms, nudged Jimmy's head back into place, holding his face steady between heated palms. The tips of his fingers barely slipped into Jimmy's hair, and all Jimmy could do was watch the expression of concentration on Thomas' face as he moved against him.

It made the whole thing feel – curiously _adult_ to him, in spite of the fact that he and Thomas were rutting against each other, still fully clothed, on the floor. Thomas looked down at him, eyes dark, biting his lip, and the whole thing just seemed somehow…steeped in _significance_ to Jimmy, regardless of the juvenile trappings.

He stared back at Thomas, and shoved himself upwards one last time, eyelids fluttering shut in spite of himself as his body arched, his toes clenching against the soles of his shoes and every muscle in his body tensing and then relaxing as he came inside his underwear.

A second later, Thomas groaned, and then slumped, resting half on top of him.

Jimmy kept his eyes closed, and concentrated on breathing in and out, until his heart rate began to slow. He felt Thomas shift atop him, pulling back, followed by the touch of his hand, carefully pushing Jimmy's hair back. Jimmy took one last deep breath and opened his eyes.

"All right?" Thomas asked. He was propped up on his elbow, hovering above Jimmy.

"Fine," Jimmy assured him. "I'm fine."

Thomas didn't move back and his fingers stroked absently against Jimmy's face. He didn't take his eyes off Jimmy. "Really."

It wasn't (quite) a question. Somewhere inside himself, Jimmy found a smile. He tried it on, and said, as definitely as he could, "Really."

Thomas moved back enough that Jimmy could sit up, which he did, awkwardly. Thomas hesitated, then pressed a kiss against Jimmy's temple. "I don't feel like I took care of you," he admitted. There was a crease between his eyebrows.

"Maybe that's because I was taking care of _you_," Jimmy told him, but Thomas' frown didn't disappear, in fact, it appeared to deepen. Jimmy gave in to an urge he'd had before, and reached out, smoothing the line with his thumb. It hadn't completely vanished when he pulled his hand back, but it had softened considerably, and Thomas managed to say, tone appropriately amused, "Well, in that case, I don't think much of your bedside manner."

He smiled at Jimmy, who smiled back, then shifted uncomfortably on the floor. "I should go," he said, and made sure to bump his arm against Thomas' shoulder to take the sting out of it. "I need a shower." He grimaced.

"It might surprise you to hear this, but in addition to a bed, I also have a bathroom. With a shower," Thomas said, but lightly enough that Jimmy could shake his head. "It's okay. Alfred and Ivy'll be wondering where I've got to, anyway," he said, and got to his feet.

Thomas followed, taking Jimmy's coat off the back of the sofa, and holding it out. He helped Jimmy into it, and straightened the collar, smoothing his hands down the front of the coat, and then leaning in to kiss Jimmy, a soft, lingering brush of lips that ended with Jimmy swaying upwards, chasing his mouth when Thomas finally pulled away.

"Maybe next time, we can make it as far as the bed," Thomas said – and Jimmy didn't answer, just smiled in response.

Because if he _was _selfish enough to insist that he had to be _the _distraction for Thomas, he was at least going to be an _ethical _one – as ethical as possible, at any rate. He would give Thomas as much as he could – and he wouldn't promise him anything he _couldn't_ give. Like overnight stays, or sleeping in the same bed. That was all a lie, anyway – Thomas trying to fill in the Edward Courtenay shaped gaps with someone who didn't even fit there. He wouldn't be Edward Courtenay for Thomas, even if he could.

You might, Jimmy thought, end up hurting someone more in the long run by being too kind. And kindness wasn't kindness at all, really, if it wasn't _honest. _Jimmy didn't think of himself as a particularly honest person as a general rule, but…he wouldn't take _advantage_ of Thomas. He did _care _about Thomas, even if it wasn't in quite the right way. And - Jimmy would look after him, as best he could, and he would be – as honest as he could about it.

Thomas would – he would _understand _that, Jimmy thought, as he pulled Thomas' front door closed behind him – or at least, he would _later_. And he would know that Jimmy had been as honest as he could be, under the circumstances – and…and that way, they could still be friends, afterwards.


	24. Chapter 24

I think nerves make me productive :)

* * *

The best defense was a good offense – or so everyone said…and Jimmy was quite prepared to put it to the test. Mostly because he really didn't have any other option.

Accordingly, when Thomas walked in to the office the next morning, it was to find Jimmy already in situ.

"Good morning," Jimmy said, glancing up from his computer with a smile that felt plastic on his face.

"Morning," Thomas replied reflexively, a knee-jerk response, and Jimmy went back to his monitor like he couldn't _feel_ Thomas standing in the middle of the room and scrutinising him.

"Jimmy," he said finally, and Jimmy looked up again, inquiringly. Thomas stared at him for a second, words apparently forgotten for a moment, before he came back to himself and said, "About…yesterday" –

The words echoed with déjà vu…only this time, they heralded a discussion that Jimmy wanted even less than the last "About yesterday…" Thomas' mouth looked the same as ever, really, he thought as he studied Thomas' face – only now Jimmy had an intimate knowledge of what his tongue felt like. Not to mention his body. And what Thomas sounded like as he came.

"– we should move Mr Abraham's demonstration to the afternoon, so it doesn't affect the craft fair," Jimmy finished.

Thomas stared at him. "…I'm sorry?"

"Mr Abrahams," Jimmy repeated. "You were thinking we should move his demonstration."

Mr Abrahams was one of the local craftsmen they'd roped into the upcoming Heritage Week that had somehow limped into existence in fits and starts, in between episodes of grief (Thomas) and sexual confusion (…_not_ Thomas). Mr Abrahams possessed the traditional (and nowadays quite useless) talent of making chairs from wood and twine, and was quite keen to make the most of an opportunity to bore a wider audience.

Thomas blinked. "No," he said eventually. "That's almost exactly what I _wasn't _thinking."

"Oh?" Jimmy affected mild puzzlement. It tasted synthetic in his mouth. "Because I've already phoned him up about it – but if you want I can call him back and" –

He put his hand on the telephone, but Thomas quickly reached out to keep the receiver on the hook. His hand probably would have ended up on top of Jimmy's, except for luck and Jimmy's new, preternatural awareness of Thomas' body.

"No – that's all right," Thomas said. "It's not a _bad _idea," he allowed, "just…it wasn't _uppermost_ in my mind this morning."

Even though they were the only two in the office, he lowered his voice for the last part – to a register that brought to Jimmy's mind the way he had bucked up and rubbed himself off against Thomas' thigh.

_Thomas had made him __**come**__ yesterday._ Jimmy fought back the rising tide of mortification, tinged with inconvenient, unwanted desire, and tried to compose his face.

"I just – thought that we should...talk," Thomas said, studying Jimmy with that _careful _expression.

"Of course," Jimmy said.

"…All right." Thomas frowned as if that wasn't the answer he'd expected.

It reminded Jimmy of _"(I don't feel like I took care of you"_) last night, somehow, and he quickly said, "There's still a lot to do if we want the Heritage Week to go smoothly" -

"I wasn't talking about" –

" – so I've updated your schedule," Jimmy said, raising his voice and cutting Thomas off. He proffered a piece of paper, fresh from the printer. He gestured with it until Thomas finally took it.

"I see," he said, as he looked at it. "Don't you think you've forgotten something, though?"

"What?" Jimmy said.

"I don't know…time for me to breathe? Or am I expected to carry out two or more meetings simultaneously?"

"There's a lot to do," Jimmy repeated with dignity.

Thomas put the paper back down on the desk, before suddenly, his hand was covering Jimmy's.

"_Jimmy,_" he said.

Jimmy froze. Frantically, he began thinking of ways to remove his hand from under Thomas' without making his withdrawal incredibly obvious.

Luckily, just then, Thomas' mobile began to ring.

"That'll be Mr Abrahams," Jimmy said. "Your five past nine appointment?" he reminded Thomas with a jerk of his chin toward the schedule.

Thomas didn't move.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Jimmy asked, a little desperately, as Thomas' mobile continued to demand attention, and Thomas' hand remained firmly, warmly atop Jimmy's.

Thomas held his gaze for a long, ringtone punctuated moment, before he withdrew, hand leaving Jimmy's to slide his mobile out of his pocket.

* * *

There really _was_ a lot to do. In contrast to Thomas' other projects, which had been plotted with a meticulousness that bordered on the ostentatious, the Heritage Week was a slapdash juggernaut that threatened to come loose at its hastily constructed moorings.

So it made sense that Thomas was kept busy.

Also, it gave Jimmy the opportunity to avoid discussing what had happened last night.

The thing was – he'd _done _it, hadn't he? He'd felt…he'd _wanted _to have sex with Thomas, and so he'd – had sex with Thomas. And Thomas had seemed happy enough at the time…so Jimmy really didn't see why he should have to spend time squirmingly trying to verbalise something that was patently obvious. He'd _done _it – what more was there to say?

And – Thomas was in a _vulnerable _state_, _so it was down to Jimmy to rein this thing in. The problem was, even at his most emotionally hardy, Thomas had had the regrettable tendency to mix business and pleasure. Jimmy fought the urge to grind his teeth as he remembered the Duke, who had lounged his way around Thomas' office as if it were an amusing tourist spot. Then, before that, there'd been Jimmy himself…and (terrible) attempts at flirtation over dusty books from the private archive as they worked…

Not to mention Edward Courtenay, who had left his fingerprints all over Thomas' life, private _and _professional.

Thomas just wasn't very _good _at this whole 'relationship' business. (Not that this current situation was in _any way _a relationship. Just. Going by past evidence, was all). He especially wasn't good at making sure the physical side stayed within accepted boundaries.

It was just…that would be one thing, if sex were the sole subject uniting himself and Thomas. Except…when _that_ ended – and it was _going _to end, because Jimmy had a feeling grief-fuelled sexual experimentation was like milk, quick to turn – and the _touching_ and _wanting_ faded from _current event_ to something more like _history_…well…that didn't mean there wasn't still a vast and important _curriculum_ between them.

He wouldn't ever be Thomas' boyfriend (his toes curled in embarrassment at the thought), but that didn't mean he couldn't still be a permanent fixture in Thomas' life. He just had to manage the transition smoothly. And _that_ meant making sure that the sex stuff never bled into the work environment.

Keeping it all separate. That was the key.

* * *

Jimmy had scheduled a twelve o' clock planning session with Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes – he'd even bolded it on Thomas' timetable, because it took clear priority over everything else he'd organized. However, when he made his way to Mr Carson's office, there was no sign of Thomas.

His heart sank. He'd thought they were done with the disappearing act. _Oh yes, because you __cured__ him, just like that, _Jimmy chided himself. _Because you're that_ _bloody_ _good_. The faceless, voiceless ghost of Edward Courtenay taunted him – a thing that should have been impossible. In theory.

Mr Carson rumbled disapprovingly, like a dormant volcano, but Mrs Hughes smiled and said, "Take a seat, won't you, James? It appears Thomas is running a little late."

There was the sound of a throat being cleared, and Jimmy found himself clenching his jaw, as Miss O' Brien spoke. "If I might say something?"

It was unfortunate that, during the early planning stages (before Thomas had descended into a giddy whirl of nymphomania, followed by a thick haze of grief), Miss O' Brien had been talked into hosting an Edwardian themed fashion show.

She had of course, refused in no uncertain terms at first – "Will I _what_? You might fancy yourself a proper ringmaster these days, Thomas Barrow, but that doesn't mean you can count me as one of your circus ponies." However, Thomas had been so keen on the idea, he'd even gone to Lady Grantham. He had assured Jimmy that pleasant and slightly insipid appearance to the contrary, her Ladyship could be sharper than her plastic surgeon's knife when the occasion called for it…and she had a peculiar hold on one Miss O' Brien. Which, given the speedy reversal of O' Brien's decision, Jimmy supposed had to be true.

"Nice to have her dancing to _my_ tune, for a change," Thomas had told Jimmy – but the heady thrill of victory had quickly soured. It turned out that ultimately, Miss O' Brien moved only to the beat of her own drum, and now she sat in on the planning meetings, a persistent, poisonous thorn, raising sharp objections to – well, everything.

Like now, when she said, "Far be it from me to put the cat amongst the pigeons" –

"Indeed," Mrs Hughes said, then added, so quietly only Jimmy, sitting next to her could hear, "…though not _that_ far, I'd imagine."

" – but are we entirely certain that this festival is going to come off?"

"What are you saying, Miss O' Brien?" Mr Carson asked, though his tone didn't hold any real surprise.

"I'm saying that it's plain as daylight that Thomas' mind hasn't been on the job lately – and don't tell me you haven't noticed, either of you, because I won't believe you." She directed a look that dared to be challenged toward Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes.

Neither of them did tell her that that, though Mrs Hughes did say, rather too mildly for Jimmy's liking, "Everyone has to muddle through a difficult situation from time to time, Miss O' Brien – and a little charity" –

"I don't dispute it," Miss O' Brien said. "But the fact remains – Jimmy's been as good as doing Thomas' work these last few weeks, and I for one, don't feel comfortable with that. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather not make a fool of myself based on inexperience and lack of planning, if it's all the same to you."

"Be that as it may" – Mr Carson began.

"Good thing no-one's _asking_ you to do that, then, isn't it?" Jimmy interrupted. He stared Miss O' Brien down, and lied, "And for your information, Thomas has been very involved with the planning for Heritage Week."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Jimmy said rashly.

"Are you sure? Because from where I'm standing, it looks as if Thomas has left you to pick up the pieces, while he's been doing God knows what."

Jimmy tipped up his chin. "It's called delegation."

Miss O' Brien cocked her head to the side, and her eyes took him in, every detail, like a high-powered, merciless camera. "So you're guaranteeing that this festival is definitely going ahead. No question about it?"

Thomas was missing, again, and even when he was present, he hadn't been exactly focused on the job lately. Jimmy only had the vaguest outline of how this behemoth venture (a whole _week?_) was going to work – and continuing to side with Thomas was only going to hurt him in the long run, when the Heritage Week spectacularly derailed.

He opened his mouth. "Yes," he said. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Well, if you insist." Miss O' Brien's face was unreadable. "You'd know best, I suppose."

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Miss O' Brien is no doubt simply referring to" –

"Only that you seem to work very closely with Thomas." Her tone was bare, carefully stripped of any innuendo – she stated it like a plain fact, and that made it somehow worse. She aimed that challenging look straight at Jimmy this time. "Or don't you think?"

"I think if you've got questions, you should be addressing them to me," came Thomas' voice.

Relief burst through his chest as he turned, and there, in the doorway, was Thomas. Jimmy wondered how long he'd been standing there – then Thomas' eyes met his, and the barest tinge of acknowledgement flickered across his face before his expression settled back into impassivity. _Long enough, clearly, _Jimmy thought.

"I would have done – only you never seem to be around. Funny, that," Miss O' Brien said, as Thomas made his way toward the last empty chair. Oddly, although she spoke to Thomas, her eyes were fixed on Jimmy. He hastily wiped his face clean of any expression.

"Apologies for the delay," Thomas said smoothly, as he sat. He placed a green manila folder on the table. "I found myself double-booked today" -

His gaze flicked to Jimmy, for a wry moment and – oh yes, _of course_ the meeting about the workshops was going to run long –

" – but if you have any questions, well, I'm here now," Thomas finished.

– so Thomas _hadn't _been pulling an Edward Courtenay related vanishing act. Not to mention, Thomas sounded – _professional. _In control. Like he knew what he was doing. Jimmy let out a breath he didn't realise he had been holding.

"Well, Thomas – I think the first thing we should look at is the craft stalls," Mrs Hughes said. "They'll need to be very well organized."

"Don't worry," Thomas told her. "I've had some thoughts about that."

"Good." Mrs Hughes smiled, a small but encouraging smile. "We're all looking forward to this festival, you know. It'll be nice to have a bit of life about the place."

"But what _kind _of life?" Mr Carson asked, heavily.

Mrs Hughes spared him an exasperated glance, "Mr Carson, I hardly think the sort of people interested in watching our local soapmakers are going to sully the reputation of Downton."

"That, as I might remind you, remains to be seen," Mr Carson said, underlining the point with his eyebrows. Mrs Hughes looked unimpressed.

Thomas opened the green folder. "I think we should set the stalls up _here, _along the sides, that way some of the demonstrations and workshops can run simultaneously" –

After smoothing Mr Carson's ruffled feathers, and finally ironing out several planning wrinkles, Thomas had to move immediately into a meeting with the local printing works, who were manufacturing a brochure to advertise the Heritage Week.

"I hope he's not spreading himself too thin," Mrs Hughes said, as she watched Thomas exit. "Still…maybe it's good for him. He _did _seem a lot brighter in himself today."

_Because of __me__,_ Jimmy thought, and felt a mixture of something like exhilaration and panic, that he could cause such a shift in Thomas' frame of mind. Still, two days ago, Thomas had been on the brink of resigning – and now, he was back to planning the Heritage Week and handling Mr Carson with smooth competence, giving no hint of stepping down and leaving Jimmy.

Gladness abruptly won out in Jimmy's mind.

That was, until Miss O' Brien called to him as they left Mr Carson's office. "Jimmy – might I have a word?"

With visible reluctance, he stopped and turned – though Miss O' Brien didn't seem to observe the wary way he held himself in her presence…or perhaps she just didn't care.

"You're not doing him any favours, you know," she said, point blank, eyes as penetrating and warm as blue searchlights. "You might think you are – but you're not. Covering up for him, taking his side, letting him think that everything's fine – that's going to do more harm than good in the long run, believe me."

The thing about O' Brien, Jimmy reminded himself, was that her maliciousness was so very _plausible_. Standing there, eyes fixed unwaveringly on his, she sounded _concerned _for Thomas_. _It was all a lie, of course, Jimmy knew that – but all the same, it flashed across his mind, that Thomas and O' Brien had been _friends_ once.

Miss O' Brien watched him closely. "How long d'you think you can keep it up? Doing things for him to make him believe everything's all right? That's not kindness, it's cruelty – and it's bound to come crashing down around your ears, sooner or later," she finished, like a particularly grim soothsayer.

"Yeah – because you're so worried about the Heritage Week," Jimmy managed. Every word that dripped from Miss O' Brien's mouth was corrosive, and not to be trusted. He _knew_ this.

She regarded him in silence for a moment. "That too," she said, finally.

Jimmy watched the line of her back as she glided away. She never looked back, though he felt she was aware of being watched. He took a breath. She didn't know about him and Thomas. She _couldn't _know. She had just been – aiming her poisoned arrows indiscriminately, as usual, and managed to hit the bullseye through sheer luck.

But she didn't _know._

Jimmy frowned as he walked away.

* * *

At lunchtime, Daisy cradled a jar with thick golden goo inside, and asked Jimmy, "D'you think you could ask Thomas if we could have a stall at the craft fair?"

"You and Alfred?" Ivy asked, staring at the jar in Daisy's arms with devastated eyes. "That's – that's a big step, don't you think? Do you really think you're ready for that?"

"Of course I do. I've tasted his marmalade," Daisy said, and despite the fact that the words were said with the utmost innocence, Jimmy felt his stomach heave. "I mean…I know it's not had time to mature or anything" –

"Then maybe you should wait," Ivy said, as if she couldn't help herself. "Maturity's important – they all say that."

" – but it's told me all I need to know," Daisy finished, ignoring her.

"It were that good?" Ivy asked, regarding the jar with a look of wistful regret not usually directed at preserves.

"Yeah," Daisy sighed, and Jimmy's stomach once more indicated its profound distaste. Still, Daisy looked happy, face lit from within, and Jimmy managed to find some grudging approval at this. "He convinced you then?" he asked, nodding at the marmalade.

Daisy bestowed a fond glance at the jar, as if she expected it to gurgle, or coo, and admitted, "He did. I weren't expecting it – actually, I was planning on saying no, but," she shrugged, "When it's right, it's right, isn't it? And you can't keep fighting something that's meant to be, can you?"

Jimmy smiled a polite, noncommittal smile. "I suppose not," he said, because it was clearly what Daisy wanted to hear.

"_Daisy_," Mrs Patmore bustled over, brandishing a dishrag in her hand like a whip. "Are you planning on serving our customers today, or should that marmalade come with a warning? '_May induce doziness – do not operate heavy machinery'_?"

"No, Mrs Patmore. Sorry, Mrs Patmore," Daisy said, scurrying away from Ivy and Jimmy's table with an apologetic look.

"Imagine what it would be like if he'd given her jewelry," Mrs Patmore said, shaking her head as she moved back to the counter.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Ivy said with brittle brightness. She fidgeted with the sugar packets and avoided Jimmy's eyes. "Daisy and Alfred."

"That's one word for it, I suppose," Jimmy said.

"I mean – I'll be happy, if they get together. Of course I will. It's just…a _stall? _Don't you think it's happening a bit fast?"

Jimmy shrugged disinterestedly. "Like Daisy said, 'When it's right, it's right.'"

Ivy flinched.

Still, Jimmy thought, meant to be or not, he liked to think he would have put up a bit more of a struggle – especially if the prize at the end was Alfred.

* * *

Thomas was booked up with meetings for the rest of the day, so Jimmy left him a note about Daisy's request before he went home.

He kept checking the time as he ate and got ready. Thomas' last meeting was at six…which meant that the earliest he'd be leaving Downton was half six…and that meant that he wouldn't be home before six forty five…or maybe even later.

At six fifty, he slipped out the back and made his way to Thomas' house, for the second time in as many days.

* * *

"Jimmy," Thomas said, his face was as open as the door he was holding, and for some reason, Jimmy found Miss O' Brien's words sidling through his mind – _not kindness, it's cruelty – _

But abruptly Thomas straightened and his expression smoothed out, and everything was all right again. "Good," he said, blandly. "I was hoping you'd show up tonight."

"You were?"

"Of course. After all, we never really sorted out Mr Abrahams' demonstration, did we? Now, I still think that the morning is best, but when it comes to the weavers an afternoon slot would work better. What do you think?"

Jimmy stared. Thomas' hair was no longer work-neat– it fell forward, a little messy, over his eyes.

"And of course, there's Daisy's stall," Thomas added. "We should organize that, too."

"What?" Jimmy said.

The corners of Thomas' mouth barely quirked and he said, in a mild voice, "I take it you aren't here in a professional capacity, then?"

Jimmy found his voice. "A _professional ca_" – he stopped and glared at Thomas. "Not unless you have a very funny idea about the sort of work I do." He stopped again. "Can I come in?"

Thomas moved back from the door with a flourish. Jimmy entered and shut the door behind him, and they stood in the hallway, looking at one another, while the silence brushed against their bodies like a large animal. Thomas tilted his head to the side. "Well," he said, confusion pointedly threaded through his voice. He folded his arms. "If we're not going to discuss my work schedule…what _will_ we talk about instead?"

Jimmy took a breath and took one step forward, closing the meagre distance between himself and Thomas. "Who says," he said hoping his voice wouldn't waver, "we have to talk at all?"

* * *

They made it to the sofa this time – Thomas had possibly been aiming for the bedroom, given that he tugged Jimmy past the sitting room door – but he was walking backwards at the time, and fumbling unsuccessfully with Jimmy's shirt buttons, so Jimmy couldn't be sure it was deliberate. Anyway, he made no objection when Jimmy pulled him into the sitting room, and over to the leather sofa.

They tumbled gracelessly onto it, and Thomas tore his mouth away from Jimmy's to warn, "This isn't going to be a repeat of last night, you know."

Jimmy's heart began to beat impossibly faster. Thomas couldn't think that – that they were going to…Jimmy wouldn't go _that _far – not for Thomas, or _anyone_.

"You're getting your clothes off this time," Thomas said firmly. "I have some standards."

The pressure in Jimmy's chest eased, and he craned his head so that he could speak right into Thomas' ear, which made Thomas shudder against him. "No you don't. I've met the Duke, remember?"

"I never said they were _high_ standards," Thomas managed, and pulled back, but only to kiss Jimmy, a quick tangle of lips and tongues that left Jimmy breathless. "Take off your shirt," Thomas said, kissing the corner of his mouth, before withdrawing entirely.

"You too," Jimmy challenged.

"I'm hardly going to object, am I?" Thomas said, amusement slipping like a shadow across his face. His fingers immediately went to his collar.

Jimmy unbuttoned his shirt awkwardly, looking down so that he wouldn't have to watch Thomas watching him. It was difficult, once he'd reached the last button, to make himself look up, but he did.

Thomas' eyes were dark, and his face had been wiped clean of amusement. His own shirt lay across one of the armrests of the sofa, and his hands reached out, and took hold of the fabric of Jimmy's shirt at his shoulders. "Take this off," he said, voice low. It was strange to see Thomas like this – half-naked. His eyes slid across Thomas' bare chest, his arms. _It didn't fit_, Jimmy thought absently, with his immaculately-clothed mental image of Thomas. Maybe that was why he found it so exciting.

Jimmy shrugged the shirt down his arms, then tossed it onto the floor. He'd hardly finished, when Thomas was on him, kissing his mouth and running his hands over Jimmy's shoulders and chest and stomach –

– and _last night_ had been one thing, but being skin-to-skin with Thomas was something else _entirely_, something that forcibly knocked the breath from Jimmy's body. The hair on Thomas' chest prickled against his own skin, a maddening sensation that went straight to his cock, and he wrapped his arms around Thomas' back, trying to get even closer.

Thomas kissed him again, and he kissed back so hard he could feel the imprint of Thomas' teeth behind his lips. He pulled away a little, but only to kiss Jimmy's chin and across his cheek. Jimmy let his hands slide down to press firmly against the small of Thomas' back. He could feel Thomas' erection against his thigh. Thomas kissed his ear, and then whispered, "What do you want?"

Jimmy let his hips roll upward, and Thomas hmmed approvingly, but refused to be distracted. He let the fingers of his left hand skate teasingly down Jimmy's side and said a little louder, "Tell me what you want."

"Just," Jimmy muttered, squirming into a more comfortable position as he lay on the couch. His eyes skimmed over Thomas – swollen mouth, bare chest, erection concealed only indecently by trousers – and his cock gave a sudden, unexpected throb that made him grit his teeth and squirm again. "Just – whatever is fine."

Honestly, he felt too uncomfortable to answer – this was about _Thomas, _after all, not _him _– but Thomas bent his head and dragged his mouth along Jimmy's breastbone, before raising his head and saying again, "What do you want?"

"I don't" – Jimmy forced the words out. "It's not" –

Thomas moved up Jimmy's body again. "Tell me," he said, and kissed the bridge of Jimmy's nose. "Anything," he promised.

Jimmy closed his eyes because _that_ was the _problem_. Thomas _meant it, _even if he was too caught up in the whole thing to realize that it was only grief-addled gratitude that made him say it. Jimmy, on the other hand, couldn't promise _Thomas _anything – and he wasn't going to _ask_ for anything either, like what he wanted _mattered _in this situation, because it _didn't. _This was about _Thomas, _and Jimmy refused to let him turn it around and make it about _Jimmy_.

He kept his eyes closed, but he could still feel Thomas' fingers brushing absently over his chest. Over and back, over and back, and with every pass, Thomas' thumb grazed his left nipple. It sent a thread of sensation down to Jimmy's stomach and cock each time it happened.

Jimmy squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, and bit the inside of his cheek. He felt Thomas shift above him, and then the press of Thomas' forehead against his own. "Tell me," Thomas murmured again. "I want to do it."

Jimmy opened his eyes, and caught Thomas' hand, the one on his chest, between his own. He stared up into Thomas' face. His mouth was dry, and absently, he licked his lips. Thomas' eyes immediately dropped to his mouth.

"This," Jimmy said, and he slowly pushed Thomas' hand down his chest, to his stomach, and then to his erection. "I want _this_."

Thomas kissed him and between the two of them, they managed to get him peeled out of his trousers and pants. When they were down around his ankles, Jimmy toed off his shoes and kicked everything off to the side, uncaring, only to stop at the look on Thomas' face. He felt abruptly very aware that he was naked in front of Thomas, and he had to fight the urge to cross his arms in front of himself. "_What_?" he said instead.

Thomas smiled, a funny little smile. "Nothing," he said. "Just – I suppose I've done worse." He shrugged.

"I know," Jimmy said, emulating Thomas' casual tone, even though his cheeks were hot. "Like I said, I've met the Duke."

Thomas reached out and brushed the back of his knuckles against Jimmy's cock. The muscles in Jimmy's stomach jumped.

"Like this?" Thomas asked, fingers ghosting around Jimmy's erection, barely making contact. "Is this what you want?"

Jimmy pushed his heels hard against the bottom of the sofa. "Just – touch me," he told Thomas. He was so aroused that he was already leaking, so hard his cock ached for release, and he didn't know how much more of this he could take without exploding.

Or worse, _imploding_.

Maybe Thomas sensed this, because he finally wrapped his hand around Jimmy's erection, touching him properly. And that – _just _that, looking down and seeing his cock in Thomas' hand, was enough to make his legs shake and his stomach tighten. There was_ –_ there was a _compelling_ wrongness to it, Jimmy thought, staring down at the firm grip of Thomas' fingers, making a fist around his cock. It was _so_ compellingly wrong it almost felt _right_.He could understand now, how Thomas could get so swept up in this kind of thing. Just for that second, he thought he could have promised Thomas _anything._

And then Thomas began to move his hand, stroking Jimmy's cock from base to tip, and Jimmy couldn't think anymore, couldn't do anything except push his hips forward into Thomas' grip, wordlessly demanding _more – _and _oh, _he had _thought_ about this, the way Thomas might touch him to make him come, but that was _nothing, _that was a _ghost _compared to the real thing – he gasped for breath and his hips stuttered once, twice, and he came over Thomas' hand.

He let his head fall back against the sofa and stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, until his breathing had calmed somewhat. When he felt steady enough, he raised his head, to find Thomas already regarding him.

"All right?" he asked, and Jimmy said, willing his voice to be strong, "I don't know what you usually do, that you have to ask that every time" –

– because he couldn't answer _yes. _It felt like Thomas had taken him apart, piece by piece, only to reconstruct him again afterwards. He didn't know how that made him feel – amazing, maybe, or awful – he only knew that whatever it was, it was a million miles from _all right. _

But he didn't have time to think much about it – this wasn't supposed to be about him, after all.

"Come here," he said, and Thomas shifted closer. Jimmy grimaced, and grabbed his right hand, the one he'd touched Jimmy with, and wiped it off against Thomas' trousers. "Better," he said.

"For you, maybe," Thomas pointed out. "It's not like they were your trousers."

Jimmy ignored the words, which were devoid of bite anyway. He leaned forward and kissed Thomas gently on the mouth. "Now you," he said, after he pulled back.

"You're sure?" Thomas asked.

_No _flashed through Jimmy's head, lit up in neon lights, but he kissed Thomas again, and reached out to lay the palm of his hand against Thomas' stomach. Thomas' hands covered his and slowly pulled it lower to rest against the swell of his still-clothed erection.

Jimmy stared down as Thomas bit his lip. His hips hitched, and he ground himself against Jimmy's palm. He could feel the shape of Thomas' cock, the heat of it, even through the barrier of fabric, and he wanted, it turned out he _did _want –

"Stop," Jimmy said, and Thomas did, eyes flying open. "Jimmy...? Is it" –

"Take them off," he said. He had a curious, breathless feeling in his chest, as Thomas stared at him in incomprehension. "Your trousers. You're not the only one with standards, you know."

But in the end, impatience won out and Jimmy settled for unzipping, and then pushing Thomas' underwear down as far as it would go. This was mostly because of the sound Thomas made when Jimmy's hand first brushed against his bare cock. Carefully, he curled his fingers around it, and Thomas made another of those sounds.

It felt wildly, sharply real, and at the same time, absurdly dreamlike, to be sitting on Thomas' sofa, touching his cock. Jimmy couldn't wrap his head around it. And then Thomas' hand came down, to enfold his own, and urge him to move – and he did, stroking the length of Thomas' erection, absorbed in watching Thomas shake and strain and come apart…

…_Because of __me,_Jimmy thought again, as he had earlier that day. _Because of __me_. "Yes," he said aloud, and he tightened his grip, and bumped his mouth against Thomas' bitten lips in a clumsy kiss. He found himself holding his breath when Thomas broke the kiss to press his forehead against Jimmy's shoulder, body tensing, and hands digging into the sofa cushions.

"_Yes_," Jimmy said again – and Thomas came.

Afterwards, Jimmy wiped most of the mess off on Thomas' trousers, pointing out, "They're already dirty," and Thomas took the opportunity to strip out of them.

"I can tell loving you is going to be hard on my home furnishings," Thomas said, eyeing his sofa critically – but instead of getting a cloth, he lay back down, comfortably tangling their bodies together. Jimmy tipped his head back, letting the armrest support it, and let his mind just drift, the fingers of one hand absently scritching through Thomas' hair and against the nape of his neck.

Thomas made a small noise and kissed his shoulder, and without planning it, Jimmy found himself saying, "I just think we should keep it separate, is all."

Thomas raised his head. He was frowning. "Keep _what_ separate?"

His mouth looked soft, and Jimmy leaned up to kiss it. "_This_," he said, when he drew back, "and work."

Thomas looked at him.

"I just – don't want to bring it into the office," he said.

"Strictly business, you mean?" He couldn't quite read the look in Thomas' eyes.

"In the office," Jimmy emphasized. "I have to _work _there_._" And _they _would have to work there after this had burned itself out and Thomas was back to normal again. Jimmy planned on making this as easy as possible – for _both _of them.

"All right," Thomas said finally, fingers stroking against Jimmy's side.

"All right?" Jimmy questioned, not quite believing it.

Thomas shrugged. "Makes sense, I suppose. And even if it didn't – I have the feeling I'd be spending a lot more time talking to Mr Abrahams if I disagreed."

He raised his eyebrows though Jimmy didn't bother to rise to the bait. "Good," he said instead, and they lapsed into silence again.

"I _don't_ mind, you know," Thomas said, out of nowhere, a few minutes later, even though it had just been settled. "I'm not just saying it. Don't think I mind anything - not if I've got _this,_" he fitted his and Jimmy's fingers together and dropped another kiss on his shoulder, "- to come home to."

_For now, _Jimmy thought, uneasy with Thomas' sudden display of sincerity. It wasn't _real, _he knew that - the way Thomas felt was tin-plated - and he was just too caught up and relieved by the _distraction_ that his feelings weren't genuine. It would work out all right in the end. And, well..._now _was _something _at least.

Even though he knew he should be getting himself together and going home, he stayed where he was, body loose and satisfied, and warm where it touched Thomas' (which was almost everywhere). He couldn't find the motivation to move until fully ten minutes later, when Thomas lifted his head again and kissed him. It was a kiss that thrummed with the promise of clean sheets and pillows and spending-the-night – and as if to underscore the point, when he pulled back, Thomas said, "You should stay here tonight."

It felt like he had reached into Jimmy's chest and squeezed his heart between his hands…and Jimmy didn't even know _why_. He kissed Thomas back, but at the same time, began to ease himself away. "Can't," he said, careful to make it sound regretful. It sounded so perfect in his own ears, he almost believed it. "I don't have any clothes for tomorrow."

"That's not exactly a disincentive, you know," Thomas pointed out, but he sat up and let Jimmy get to his feet. He watched Jimmy get dressed, and oddly, after all they'd done, he still felt self-conscious at the clear expression of interest on Thomas' face.

Still, he brazened it out, putting a hand on Thomas' shoulder and kissing him quickly. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

"Mm," Thomas agreed, catching his wrist and holding him in place to lengthen the kiss. "And afterwards."

It wasn't even a question, and Thomas didn't sound uncertain about it – he sounded…happy, in his muted, mostly-under-the-surface Thomas-way…so Jimmy didn't know why he should feel that painful heart-squeeze again.

He forced himself to smile. "And afterwards," he agreed.


	25. Chapter 25

Nearly there! I think there's about two more chapters in this, three, tops - so I swear, we are rounding Denial Corner and taking the first exit for Acceptance City :)

* * *

As it turned out, the Heritage Week was both a blessing and a curse as regards this new situation with Thomas.

Thomas _had_ promised, of course, that it wouldn't interfere with work – but still, Jimmy suspected that he couldn't go straight from _nothing_ to _shagging his superior_ without at least a little strained small talk over morning coffee. However, the Heritage Week meant that they were both so busy trying to organize stalls and talks and traditional craft demonstrations that really, there wasn't _time _for any awkwardness in the office. Sometimes, there wasn't even time for morning coffee.

So…that was good.

Not to mention, everyone at Downton was working odd hours trying to get everything ready. The jingle of keys became a sort of omnipresent backing track to the day's business, as Mrs Hughes made every attempt to be in seven places at once. Mr Carson always seemed to be heralded by a flurry of tightly-typed paperwork regarding licenses and permits and budgets. And Miss O' Brien annexed several rooms of the house for dress-fittings, which meant a constant trickle of people making their way upstairs.

"I never knew that the atmosphere of Clapham Junction was something we aspired to," Mr Carson said. "Perhaps it was naïve of me, but I always assumed the _stately _aspect of a stately home formed some part of its charm."

"Oh come now, Mr Carson," Mrs Hughes said as she passed, keys clinking on her keyring, "They say that it's good to try new things, you know."

"And just who might _'they' _be?" Mr Carson asked. Mrs Hughes gave a shake of her head, but didn't stop.

Edna and Alfred were dispatched hither and yon to help with various tasks, though every time Jimmy managed to stop by the cafe, Edna seemed to be there, saying things like, "It's not my job, you know," or "I never realized being a tour guide would involve so much heavy lifting."

"Oh yes, crippled from it you are, poor lamb," Mrs Patmore said, with a roll of her eyes.

Meanwhile, Anna all but abandoned the gift-shop, lending her calmly competent presence to Downton almost full time. "It looks like you could use an extra pair of hands," she said. "And I don't mind helping."

What all this _meant, _was that everyone's schedule was a complete mess, and so Jimmy didn't have to be as _careful _about this thing with Thomas as he supposed he would be under normal circumstances – he didn't have to come up with excuses for his chronic lateness coming home, or fabricate reasons for slipping away in the evenings. He didn't have to pace himself – he could spend every evening at Thomas' house without any awkward questions (without any questions at all in fact)…

So…he did.

It would be stupid not to take advantage of an opportunity like this. Sometimes, if it had been a _very _late evening, they even went straight to Thomas' house from work. It was a luxury, not having to consider how things might _look…_and yet, it gave Jimmy pause. He couldn't help but feel that it was giving Thomas the wrong impression – once, as he'd flicked the light switch off, Thomas had ushered him out of the office with the words, "Come on then, let's go home." He hadn't even seemed aware of what had just come out of his mouth – he'd frowned as Jimmy turned to stare at him and asked, "What is it? Don't tell me you've forgotten something."

And when Jimmy said, "What did you just say?" Thomas' face had shifted between confused and impatient as he replied, "I said, 'Get your skates on'. Because I, for one, have got plans for this evening that don't involve spreadsheets or organizing my diary." He took a step closer to Jimmy and murmured in his ear, "Not that I'm allowed discuss those plans _here_."

It _could_ have been a meaningless slip of the tongue – but Jimmy knew better. Because sometimes…sometimes that was what those evenings felt like to _him_, too – like he and Thomas were leaving the office to go _home._

Jimmy put it down to tiredness, in his case – preparing for the Heritage Week had left him in a strange state. A kind of physical exhaustion mixed with mental enervation that contrived to make everything feel vaguely unreal around the edges, slightly dreamlike.

* * *

"My back is killing me," Jimmy grumbled as he shifted atop Thomas on the couch, pausing to bury his face in Thomas' neck. Thomas smelled very faintly of cologne and cigarettes, and Jimmy breathed it in. Thomas' shirt collar rubbed against his nose.

"Well, lucky for you I just replaced the medieval torture device in my bedroom – with an actual bed," Thomas said. His hands slid down Jimmy's back, until they could no longer in conscience be said to be on his back at all, but rather touching his arse. Jimmy shifted carefully again, and with barely a hitch, Thomas' hands wandered to less controversial territory. Jimmy closed his eyes as he felt Thomas' fingers curl around his hips. "Mm," he said vaguely, no longer really keeping track of the conversation. "Did you?"

"I did," Thomas said. "I thought the medieval torture device was giving people the wrong idea." His thumbs suddenly stopped stroking over Jimmy's hipbones, and Jimmy opened his eyes to find Thomas staring expectantly at him. "So?" he said.

"So…" Jimmy repeated.

"Bed," Thomas reminded him, leaning in for a kiss.

The realization of his mistake rushed through him trailing a kite string of adrenaline. "That's all right," he said, "It'd probably hurt more to move now, anyway."

Seeing the beginning of a frown on Thomas' face, he added, quickly, "If you really want to help, you could let Alfred set up for the next lecture himself. I must have moved _hundreds _of chairs this week." The Heritage Week was being ushered in with a series of talks that had titles like – _The Lost Boys: Britain's Missing Generation, _and – _A House Divided: the Social Strata of a Stately Home. _Talks so dry that Jimmy felt all the moisture slowly seeping out of his eyeballs just reading the titles.

"What happened to not wanting preferential treatment? I thought we weren't supposed to bring _this_," he kissed Jimmy's neck, words coming out muffled, "into the office." Jimmy didn't mind the thread of amusement that flashed through Thomas' voice – it was proof of the success of his distraction.

"Not wanting you to act funny around me in the office doesn't mean you can't treat me better than _Alfred_." He arched into Thomas' touch. "It's nothing to do with being preferential – I always make out better than he does. It's just natural selection in action," he said loftily.

Thomas looked amused, and Jimmy kissed the upward twist of his mouth, feeling a little smug.

"Well," Thomas said, when he pulled back. His hands began to trail up Jimmy's thighs, "I can't do anything about the chairs now…but I'd be willing to try and take your mind off them…"

Jimmy pushed their foreheads together, and tried to keep his voice even as Thomas' fingers slipped up the inside seam of his trousers. "That's very generous of you," he said, the roll of his eyes somewhat contradicted by the catch in his breath.

"I have my moments," Thomas informed him.

* * *

The dress rehearsal for the fashion show was bedlam – Jimmy slipped in specially to enjoy O' Brien's grim-faced endurance as she laced and buckled and girded people into a succession of progressively more elaborate outfits, while being trailed by a vaguely familiar-looking young girl in a purple dress with an embroidered collar, saying things like, "So if you were really my ladies' maid, I'd get to boss you around?" As she passed behind O' Brien, a huge hat in her hands, Anna stifled a smile, while Jimmy made careful note of the look on O' Brien's face, the better to describe it to Thomas later.

O' Brien bestowed a flat look at the girl in purple, and mumbled through a mouthful of pins, "You could _try_."

"I don't think I'd mind that," the girl reflected. "I think I'd be quite good at it, actually."

"Oh, I daresay," O' Brien said, as she knelt on the floor, tacking up the floor-length skirt of another woman, who was rather incongruously holding a mobile phone and texting.

An older woman tapped O' Brien on the shoulder and without looking at her, O' Brien said, "Wait over there – I'll deal with you when I have a moment." She motioned to the far wall of the room, where a line of people had formed.

A suddenly hatless Anna suggested, "Actually, Miss O' Brien, I'm just finished with Sophie's dress, so I can take Mrs Langham, if you want."

"She can wait her turn, same as the rest," O' Brien said, and Anna subsided, retreating to a safe distance and beckoning a boy in his late teens who slouched moodily in a corner, suit horribly askew.

The girl in the purple dress frowned at O' Brien. "Is that how you would have acted back then?"

"Well, since I don't believe I would have had any more hands _then _than I do right _now_, it's quite likely." She flicked her eyes at Jimmy and murmured, "Unlike _some, _I don't have permission to stand around and make idle chit-chat. I wonder what I'd have to do to get _that_ privilege."

Jimmy's fingers twitched at the insinuation, but he met her gaze as calmly and boldly as he could. She didn't _know._

"I don't think you'd be _that _rude though," the girl decided. "It just doesn't seem authentic, is all. Our history teacher said if we did this, we'd get an authentic flavor of how things used to be."

"Well how am I to act like a proper ladies maid, if you won't act like a proper young lady?" Miss O' Brien asked, as she got to her feet, and directed the woman with the slightly shorter skirt to the other side of the room.

"And how's that?" the girl asked with interest.

"Be seen, and not heard. According to my notes, anyway." O' Brien aimed a look like a sledgehammer in her direction, before sweeping away.

The girl in the purple dress appeared unquelled, watching O' Brien go, then turning to Jimmy and confiding, "He fancies your girlfriend, you know."

Jimmy stared at her. "What?"

"Our history teacher. My friend Sandra says she saw them at _Maurice's _having dinner, once." She eyed Jimmy with interest. "What d'you think about that?"

"I think it's none of your business," Jimmy said smartly.

"I don't think they're still going out though," she said. "He always gives us _loads _of homework – and he wouldn't have time to correct it if he had a proper girlfriend, would he? So you're probably still in with a chance there – if you want it." She eyed Jimmy speculatively. "Or have you already got someone else?"

Unbidden, an image from last night flashed across his mind – Thomas underneath him, panting, mouth soft and red – and Jimmy quickly cleared his throat and said, "If I had, I wouldn't tell _you. _Because it's still _none of your business_."

"Yes it is. It's part of being a girl guide," she said.

"What is? Poking your nose in where it doesn't belong?"

"We promise to help others," she said. "It's one of our five Zones and everything – _Skills and Relationships. _I'm working on my Communicator badge at the moment."

"I don't need _your_ help," Jimmy told her.

"That means you _do_ have a new girlfriend," she said, with satisfaction. "Well, just remember not to shout at this one in cafes – not if you want to hang on to her." She studied Jimmy critically. "You're probably all right at _getting _them – I bet it's _keeping _them that's your problem."

Another image of Thomas flickered through his head – the way he looked at Jimmy whenever he closed the front door behind them, how he touched Jimmy – not even the heated intensity of _during, _but _afterwards, _when they were both finished and complete, and Thomas' hands still wandered over Jimmy's body, like he wasn't even aware of doing it. It was a jackrabbit thought – passing through his brain and disappearing again in an instant, too quickly to make him feel uncomfortable. Actually, it was almost reassuring.

"_Thanks,_" Jimmy said to the girl in the purple dress, with heavy sarcasm. "But I think I'm doing all right."

There was a small commotion in another part of the room, and Anna hurried over, making a beeline straight for them, followed, at an only slightly less rushed pace, by Miss O' Brien.

"Sorry to disturb you," Anna said, "but Helen – where's your little sister? We can't find her in here, or in the fitting room, and Miss O' Brien is starting to worry."

"She's wearing a vintage burgundy velvet dress with a lace collar," O' Brien said, lips going white as she said 'lace collar.' It was clear that her worry was for the continued sanctity of the garments, rather than their current inhabitor.

The girl – Helen, apparently – shrugged. "I don't know."

Anna frowned, "You don't know?"

"She was here an hour ago," Helen said.

Looks were exchanged.

"An hour ago? That's the last time you saw her?" Anna asked carefully.

"She's probably wandered off - she does that all the time," Helen said with a roll of her eyes. Then, as if in concession to the clear anxiety of both Anna and O' Brien, she added, "She's bound to turn up sooner or later though."

"Right – well, even so, I think we probably ought to try and make it sooner. Miss O' Brien – you'd best hold the fort here…Jimmy?" Anna said, and he nodded.

Helen brightened. "I'll come with you."

"That's all right – you stay here," Anna told Helen. "You don't even know the layout of the house, or anything, and the last thing we need is someone else getting lost."

"I've got my orienteering merit badge," Helen said hopefully, but Anna elected not to hear her. She raised her voice as they made their way toward the door, "She likes to draw on walls though! Just so you know!"

Outside the door, Anna decided, "You take one side of the corridor, and I'll take the other – and let's hope one of us finds her before she does any damage."

As it turned out, Jimmy located the most miniature member of the fashion show in one of the guest bedrooms. He almost didn't, because its dress was the exact same colour and texture of the velvet curtains it was sitting next to. However, any relief he felt (which was mild, and distant – _he_ wasn't the one who'd misplaced a child, after all) vanished when he attempted to speak to it.

Its response to his greeting was to momentarily cease its caressing of the velvet curtains and inform him, "I'm hiding."

"All right," he said, "But we've got to go back now. People are looking for you."

It absorbed this quite sanguinely, then looked up at him with wide blue eyes and said, "No thank you."

Jimmy blinked. "What?"

"My mom is getting her hair brown today," it told him.

"All right," he said, digesting this poorly formatted sentence. "But we really have to go now" –

"No," it said again, and its small fists tightened on the curtain. "I don't want to."

Jimmy considered the child. It was small, even by child-standards (well, from what he could tell, anyway), and even if he wasn't _particularly_ tall (though knowing Alfred tended to stretch one's understanding of the concept to ludicrous proportions), there was really only one way this could go.

Ten minutes later, and Jimmy was on his hands and knees, trying in vain to coax it out from the chaise longue it had crawled under. He grimaced as it continued to sob passionately, and at a very high pitch. He wondered how, in a situation designed to inconvenience Miss O' Brien specifically, _he _was the one who ended up on the floor, waiting for a child with the lungs of an opera singer to see reason. He decided that Thomas would be hearing a highly edited version of this story later, possibly one that erased the child altogether.

This was the scene that Mr Carson walked in on. Jimmy immediately scrambled to his feet, anticipating a lecture on standards and stately homes, and the evils of Heritage Weeks (that Jimmy was beginning to agree with, to be honest). But Mr Carson only raised an eyebrow and said, in a slightly louder voice in order to be heard over the screams, "I take it you've located the missing child, then?"

"It's under there," Jimmy said, gesturing at the powder blue chaise longue. "It won't come out."

"Won't come out?" Mr Carson repeated, in tones of stiff disbelief.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Jimmy said, quite shortly, as the child continued to wail. "_You _have a go if you don't believe me." At the look on Mr Carson's face at being spoken to in such a fashion, he added, "…sir."

"Thank you, James – I believe I will," Mr Carson said. He lowered himself to the floor with a little grunt of difficulty – and a sharp glance at Jimmy that dared him to pass any remark. "Well, well – who's this then?" he asked, peering under the chaise longue.

The crying continued, and Jimmy felt a twist of satisfaction. _Told you, _he thought. Mr Carson, however, did not appear disheartened. "Hmm," he said, putting a finger to his lips, "I know – you must be Rachel."

"No!" The sobbing, if anything, increased in volume.

"No? I do apologise. Let me think again. Alexandra? No – not Alexandra either…I know – Olivia."

It might have a sign of impending deafness, but it seemed to Jimmy that the noise had abated somewhat.

"Don't tell me I'm wrong again," Mr Carson said, with every appearance of chagrin. A red face popped out momentarily, to repeat, "Wrong again," before vanishing once more. The sobbing had abruptly halted.

"Oh dear," Mr Carson said, with a shake of his head. "I fear I'm not very good at this game after all. How about – I shall have one last guess, and then, if I get it wrong again – you tell me your name. How about that?"

"Okay," came the muffled reply.

"I think," Mr Carson said, with heavy consideration, "If you're not Rachel, or Alexandra, and you're not Olivia…you must be – _Jack_."

Jimmy cringed at the yelping sound that suddenly erupted from under the chaise longue – before realizing that it was laughter. A small, tangled-haired figure slid out from under the chaise longue and told him, "Jack is for _boys. _I'm Holly."

"Holly," Mr Carson repeated. "Of course you are. And I'm Mr Carson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Holly." He extended a hand, which was ignored, though seemingly not out of any baleful motive.

"Do you want to see my sparkles?" it asked.

"I would be delighted," Mr Carson said. He sounded as if he meant every word. In response, it got to its feet, and stamped. The tips of its runners, encrusted with tiny, multicoloured crystals, immediately lit up, like a gaudy runway.

"Well – would you look at that," Mr Carson said, sounding impressed.

Several minutes later, and Mr Carson was in bodily possession of a small figure whose only response to a suggestion to revisit Miss O' Brien had been to extend its arms and demand, "Up." Before leaving the room, Mr Carson turned to Jimmy and said, with a lofty dignity that was only slightly diminished by the small hands investigating his collar, "You see, James, there are times when all a task needs, is a little _finesse."_

* * *

"I would have paid good money to see that."

"Which part?" Jimmy asked.

"All of it," Thomas said immediately. "Sarah, having to be polite and get down on her knees for the lowly peons" –

"Didn't you hear me? She wasn't all that polite," Jimmy said.

"Believe me, she was holding back." Thomas looked amused. "And old Carson, doing his best Father Christmas impersonation" –

Jimmy made a face. "_All a task needs, is a little __finesse__, James._ I bet if he'd got there first, he wouldn't have done as well. It was tired of screaming by the time he came in, that's all."

" – and _you_," Thomas said – but he didn't elaborate on that, just leaned in and kissed him hard, pushing Jimmy back against the wall. When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and he didn't seem amused any more. He looked Jimmy up and down. "D'you want to try something new?"

Jimmy's heart gave a funny lurch in his chest as he stared at Thomas, standing a bare half-step away, waiting for his answer. Because – hand jobs, that was _it_, that was _all. _That was _safest._ That way, there wouldn't be any hard feelings _afterwards. _Jimmy thought it would be impossible for either of them to feel like they'd been fucked over, if neither of them actually got – well, _literally_ fucked.

But now Thomas was in front of him, suggesting something _new, _which meant _not _handjobs, and _that_ meant that Jimmy had to lick his lips and take a breath and say – "…yes."

He blinked, taken aback. He was certain he hadn't meant to say _that. _But Thomas was already pushing Jimmy's coat off his shoulders, and onto the hallway floor – they'd only just made it inside Thomas' front door a few moments before. He took another breath, and tried to gather himself, ready to tell Thomas –

"Take this off," Thomas said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

"Yes," Jimmy said again, hands coming up and bumping against Thomas' as he worked on the buttons. After a moment of help-hindering, Thomas' fingers slid down further, to unbuckle his belt.

It was the tiredness, Jimmy thought – that curious, exhilarating exhaustion that made him come home with Thomas every evening. It meant that running underneath the caution telling him not to let things go too far, was a simultaneous desire to drop his guard even more and _let things happen – _just to see…well, what _would _happen. What it would feel like – even if he already knew it was a bad idea. He grabbed Thomas' shoulders to pull him close, while Thomas unzipped his fly and slid his hand inside Jimmy's trousers to cup his hardening prick.

It was still disconcerting to him – not that he _wanted _Thomas…but _how_ _much _he wanted Thomas. The solidity of Thomas' body, the strength of his hands…the uncompromising _maleness_ of him – it was strange that Jimmy should be aroused – not in _spite _of those things, but _because _of them. His very lack of pause, oddly served to give him pause…though generally only afterwards. No matter how hard he tried not to let it happen, in the moment, the threads of caution snapped, and Jimmy found himself, as he did now, thrusting forward into the heat and pressure of Thomas' hands, heedless of everything else except the need for _more. _

He'd almost forgotten this _new thing, _until Thomas pushed his trousers and pants to mid thigh, and then abruptly slid down onto his knees. Jimmy jerked and made an odd choked sound (because the sight of Thomas kneeling in front of him did strange things to his insides), and said, "Don't – you don't have to."

"I know," Thomas said, sounding oddly amused. "Believe it or not, no-one's got a gun to my head." He kissed Jimmy's navel and said, "It's all right – you'll like it."

If Jimmy'd been capable, he might have snapped back that he wasn't _thick – _of _course _he was going to like it…that was the _problem, _in fact. The last thing he needed was to like Thomas, or the things he did with Thomas any more than he already did. But Thomas had leaned forward, and licked a long stripe up his cock, and all his words vanished, maybe never to return again.

Thomas looked up at him, and wrapped his right hand around the base of Jimmy's cock, before parting his lips and lowering his head. Jimmy jerked forward at the first touch of Thomas' mouth, but Thomas placed his free hand on Jimmy's hip, holding him back against the wall. Jimmy took shaking breaths in, filling his lungs with air that was clearly faulty, because his head spun and his heart jumped nonstop in his chest, and Thomas' mouth was warm and wet and Jimmy was going to – he was _going to_ –

"Stop," Jimmy heard himself say, though he felt an undeniable pang when Thomas did. He rested his forehead against Jimmy's stomach and asked, "What's wrong?" His hands stroked against Jimmy's thighs, which felt shaky, as if they could barely hold him up.

Jimmy shook his head. "Nothing's wrong."

"Then why'd you make me stop?" Thomas asked. He leaned forward again, to kiss the very tip of Jimmy's cock. "You should let me" –

"No," Jimmy said, and Thomas frowned. "It's – what I want, you said…and it's – that's not what I want."

Thomas watched him closely. "Well then, what _do_ you want?" he asked.

And that was the thing about the tiredness, Jimmy thought as he looked down into Thomas' face – it skinned away all his surface layers of reluctance and embarrassment until he was left with only the most pressing, undeniable _wants _uppermost in his mind, bare and unfettered – and he didn't, _couldn't_, care enough to keep them safely inside.

"Take off your clothes," Jimmy said – though he only waited until Thomas had his shirt unbuttoned, and parted to reveal his chest, before he started to stroke himself. Thomas paused, still on his knees in front of him, and began to reach upwards –

"No," Jimmy said again. He kept touching himself. "Don't – I just…I want" – he bit his lip, very close.

"All right," Thomas said, and, "All right," again. "Whatever you want." And he stayed still while Jimmy stroked himself to completion, holding Thomas' gaze until he couldn't any more, until he closed his eyes and stiffened, and came in streaks across Thomas' throat and chest.

Then he rested his weight against the wall, and slid unsteadily down until he was sitting on the floor, lungs still heaving. Now, too late, caution crept up behind him and threw its bony arms around him. He had wanted – he had _wanted, _with a depth of feeling that seemed _ceremonial, _almost, to do exactly what he had just done – though now it just seemed overblown and ridiculous.

He felt a hand on his cheek, and looked up into Thomas' face, which was soft. "Aren't you full of surprises," was all he said.

Jimmy managed a smile that felt a little odd on his face, before realizing that once again, Thomas had taken care of him, while he hadn't returned the favour. He took a moment to stiffen his resolve, before shuffling closer to Thomas. Almost in a dream, Jimmy reached out and pressed his hand against Thomas' throat, where he'd come, absently rubbing his semen into Thomas' skin. He should have found it disgusting, Jimmy thought detachedly, as his thumb stroked against Thomas' neck. Except he didn't.

He took a breath, and moved his hand to Thomas' shoulder. "Lie down," he said. "It's your turn."

In spite of his urging, and the pressure of his hand, Thomas made no move to do as he said. He pushed his fingers through Jimmy's hair in a way that Jimmy wished wasn't calming. His fists clenched and he was forced to admit, "I don't think I can do it, if you're like this. You'll have to lie down. Or – stand up."

Thomas' fingers didn't even pause, just kept brushing through his hair. "You really want to do that right now?" he said.

"You did it to me," Jimmy pointed out.

"Yeah, but I'm not going to give you a black mark if you don't return the favour this very minute," Thomas said, trying to catch his eyes.

"You did it to me," Jimmy repeated, because that was the crux of it. He couldn't let Thomas do things to him, _for _him, that he wasn't willing to do for Thomas. The thing that made his palms sweat however, was the fact that…he _wasn't _unwilling. _That _inspired a fear that was almost crippling, except for the dull, insistent thought that he had to do what Thomas had done – to even the scales, to keep things fair.

But Thomas cupped his face in his hands and kissed him briefly. "I'm not working to a schedule here, you know," he said. "We've got _time _for all that. We've got enough time for everything."

Jimmy's heart clenched tight, because they didn't, not really – but Thomas smiled at him as if it had all been resolved and said, "Besides – if it's my turn, then shouldn't I get to decide?"

He didn't try and resist when Thomas pushed him down, and straddled him, knees on either side of Jimmy's thighs, and he didn't object when Thomas pulled out his cock and touched himself the way Jimmy had done, until he finally came, spilling his release onto Jimmy's skin. Even though he'd done the same thing – it felt curiously, nearly _invasively_ intimate to Jimmy…as if Thomas were putting his mark on him, claiming ownership of him.

Jimmy was sure the act hadn't had any of those odd undertones when _he'd _done it.

Afterwards, Thomas lay down on his side, next to Jimmy, and kissed the side of his face. Lightly, he said, "Well – what's it going to be this time?"

"What?" Jimmy asked.

"Let me guess – you're afraid of monsters?" Thomas' hand stroked against his cheek. "No, wait – y'get violent if you have to share the covers. Insomniac? Sleeptalker?"

"What?" Jimmy said again, though he knew what was coming. Thomas' fingers were gentle against his skin.

"I'm just wondering what reason you're going to give me for not staying this time." His voice was matter of fact, almost amused, and Jimmy felt relieved for a second.

"Actually, I grind me teeth," he said flippantly. "It's awful – you'd be pressing a pillow over my face before you even knew what you were doing."

"Of course," Thomas said. Jimmy made the mistake of looking at him – properly looking at him, and the tight line of his mouth told a different story. Jimmy swallowed, and had to look away.

"Right." Thomas slowly got to his feet, and Jimmy followed, awkwardly shrugging back into his shirt and refastening his trousers.

"I'd better go," he said, when he was finished.

"Fine," Thomas said, and what made everything worse was the fact that he was still using that light, easy tone, like it didn't matter to him. Without conscious thought, Jimmy found himself grasping Thomas' shoulders, and leaning upwards to kiss him. "I'll stay next time," he said, powerless to stop himself. "I promise."

_That was cruel, _Jimmy thought, even as he said it, _not kind. Getting his hopes up. _

Thomas looked at him for a long moment, face peculiarly still. "I'll hold you to that, you know," he said evenly.

"Of course you will," Jimmy said – and now it was his turn to try out that hollow, untroubled voice – even as he thought, secretly, with a kind of pain on Thomas' behalf – _No, you won't. _


	26. Chapter 26

I thought this would be shorter somehow.

* * *

And that was where it all started to go wrong – as if, by lying to Thomas, he'd thrown the first deceitful snowball that began the slow but inexorable karmic avalanche.

When he got home, and carefully unlocked the front door, the house was in darkness. Well – he and Thomas _had_ stayed late in the office – since Miss O' Brien had taken great satisfaction in announcing a number of problems in dire need of solving if the fashion show was to go ahead as scheduled tomorrow.

"Funny you didn't think to mention any of these before," Thomas had said.

"I didn't realize I was responsible for putting on a one woman show," was the tart reply. "I think you'll find my involvement begins and ends with the dresses. I just thought you might like to know," she said, as she proffered a closely-written list.

Still, Thomas had not seemed especially disheartened after she left. "She's just kicking up because that's all she can do. She won't try anything – not after her ladyship told Sarah she was holding her personally responsible."

Which was all very well, but privately, Jimmy wondered whether it was even _worth_ antagonizing O' Brien when the end result was extra work on both their parts.

After _that, _Mr Carson had found his way to Thomas' desk with several other minor matters relating to the stalls. "As they say – plan in haste, repent at leisure," he had rumbled, though Jimmy thought he seemed more satisfied than not by these hindrances.

And then, of course, there had been…everything that had happened at Thomas' house (Jimmy's mind immediately skittered away from the finer details of _everything)_.

It was no wonder he was so late. Really, what it all came down to, was that Jimmy shouldn't have gone to Thomas' house at all. It was all right _this _week, he decided as he picked his way across the dark kitchen, but next week, when things went back to normal, he would have to be more discreet, in case anyone notic –

The kitchen was suddenly flooded with light, and Jimmy jumped. Ivy materialized in the doorway, wearing her dressing gown and looking rather like a pink and fluffy ghost.

"Jimmy?" she said, sounding surprised. "Are you just getting back _now_? Don't tell me Mr Barrow had you in the office all this time."

At once Jimmy fired back, "What are you still doing up?"

It worked. The line between Ivy's eyebrows deepened and she admitted, "I just couldn't sleep. Alfred and Daisy kept me up all night, making jam."

Jimmy stared at her for a moment, hoping with all his heart (and his stomach) that the phrase 'making jam' would not turn out to be a euphemism. But then his eyes drifted left, toward the kitchen table, which was stacked high with gingham-topped jars. The relief that came with knowing that in this case, a jar of jam was _just _a jar of jam, was momentarily overpowering.

"Well, I hope it's worth it," Ivy said. "All that extra work you're doing for Mr Barrow. Are you getting overtime?"

Jimmy shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable with this renewed focus on his activities. But it turned out to be a false alarm, because without even waiting for an answer, Ivy said, "Mind you, I can see why you might do it, even if you're not bein' paid…" she cast an unhappy glance at the kitchen table, "I might ask Mrs Hughes if she's got any extra work for me, tomorrow evening. I don't think I could take another night like this – I really don't."

He made a vague noise that could mean anything Ivy wanted it to, and made his escape, heart pounding.

* * *

It was a wake-up call – that's what it was. A warning. It was a dart that pierced the thick, soothing blanket of exhaustion that had been wrapped around Jimmy ever since this thing with Thomas began. He couldn't help but take heed of it – he'd have been a fool not to.

At the fashion show, he stood at the back, and watched O' Brien give a stony-faced monologue on fashion into Edwardian times and beyond, as a succession of people paraded their way out of the past and down the catwalk.

" – with a modified corset" –

" – and of course, an embroidered blouse to complete the look" –

" – the classic Norfolk suit" –

" – 1920's, bringing with it a new silhouette and a bolder, more modern" –

There was some satisfaction to be derived from O' Brien's distaste for the task – she clearly preferred her clothes on the dress-forms as opposed to the human body…but this enjoyment was negated somewhat by how very _thorough _she was. Lady Grantham sat near the back, beside Carson, and both seemed attentive to every word O' Brien uttered, but Jimmy found his focus slipping with every new-old outfit.

Thomas slipped in toward the end, and made his way over to stand beside Jimmy – just in time for the smallest member of the fashion show to make her way down the runway, holding the hand of her sister.

" - wearing a burgundy velvet dress, with a lace collar," O' Brien said. The child dropped its sister's hand and essayed a small wave (Carson inclined his head in acknowledgment) and then stamped its feet – which immediately lit up.

"The shoes," O' Brien continued smoothly, " – are not period accurate…as you may have noticed."

There was a wave of laughter (though O' Brien herself did not seem amused – and having spent _time_ with the littlest member of the fashion show, Jimmy could guess why), and Lady Grantham turned to Carson and murmured, "Oh, isn't she just _precious?_"

It beamed at the clapping and chuckling, and waved even harder. Jimmy glanced at Carson and saw that he had a daffy kind of look on his face as he gazed at it.

"Hasn't everything worked out well? Even you have to admit that this week has been a great success, Carson," Lady Grantham said, over the "I will admit, my lady – that some parts of it have been…most enjoyable." Then, hurriedly, he cleared his throat and wiped the stupid expression off his face.

Thomas leaned in close and spoke into his ear. "Most enjoyable," he repeated, though he nodded toward the steadfastly blank expression on O' Brien's face. Jimmy smiled a tight smile and took a step to the side, widening the distance between them.

He could feel Thomas looking at him, but Jimmy faced forward and was careful not to meet his eyes.

* * *

Probably, he shouldn't have gone home – not _home, _he didn't mean _home…_he shouldn't have gone back to Thomas' house, where Thomas offered him tea, only to get distracted and end up pressing him back over the kitchen table, while the kettle whistled, ignored, in the background. Except he did – he couldn't help it.

Afterwards, he rested his chin on Thomas' shoulder and looped his arms around Thomas' back, while Thomas ran a hand through his hair, and offered him tea again.

Jimmy couldn't help it – he tensed as he pulled back…and then, forced himself to relax. "That's all right," he said. "I should probably get going, anyway." The edge of the table dug into the backs of his thighs, and Thomas went very still for a moment.

_I'll stay next time. I promise._

The words hung in the air between them, accusatory. Even though Jimmy knew it was his fault for saying it, he couldn't help the flash of resentment – _Why do you always have to __push__, Thomas? Why can't you ever just leave well enough alone?_

He could, of course, have told Thomas that Ivy'd started asking questions, and if he kept on spending so much time with Thomas, she might begin to suspect. It was almost the truth. Except it sounded weak to his own ears – and he was half-afraid that if he said it to Thomas, Thomas' response would be, "So what?"

The Duke, Edward Courtenay…the random strangers to whom Thomas had offered the deluxe tour package…the fact was Thomas was no bloody good at being discreet. Or maybe it would be fairer to say – Thomas had no _interest _in being discreet.

But the moment stretched out, and Thomas didn't say anything, just looked at Jimmy with an unreadable face.

"It's going to be a long day tomorrow," Jimmy said. "With the – stalls." It wasn't _exactly_ an excuse – the final day of the Heritage Week was bound to be busy…but he felt a mixture of irritation and galling uncertainty at being placed in this position at all. At having to playact that Thomas was – was his _boyfriend _or something, needing to be soothed. Actually _wanting _to sooth his feelings only served to further annoy Jimmy.

But – "Right," Thomas said finally. It wasn't in the same striving-for-wry-humour tone as yesterday. The word came out flat, and Thomas took a step back, and actually smiled – though it was the kind of smile Jimmy found he didn't want to return. _I'll hold you to that, _he had said, but Jimmy had known that he wouldn't risk it – that he wanted _Jimmy_ too much to risk it.

_I'll stay next time, _Jimmy wanted to say, to take the sting out of Thomas' defeat, and to wipe that blank look off his face, but thankfully he managed to hold his tongue.

"Well," Thomas said, as the silence stretched. He walked over to the twice-boiled kettle and began to busy himself making tea. He glanced over at Jimmy like he was waiting for something, but Jimmy didn't know what. Thomas raised his eyebrows and said, "I suppose you'd better go, then."

Jimmy suddenly noticed that he had only taken out one cup.

Oh. Right. Thomas was waiting for Jimmy to _leave. _Feeling bizarrely off-balance, Jimmy pushed himself away from the table. "Right," he said, and managed a smile. Thomas just sipped his tea and watched him as he walked out of the kitchen.

He'd just…he'd known Thomas would let him go – he'd just…he'd expected Thomas to ask him to _stay_, first.

* * *

Mrs Patmore volunteered to help out with Alfred and Daisy's stall in the morning. Well, _volunteered_ was too innocuous a word. _Commandeered_ was probably a more accurate description.

"It's all right," Daisy told her. "We can manage."

"Really?" Mrs Patmore said. "Manage _what, _pray tell? Because I've been sat in that café for months and months watching _nothing at all_ happen."

"But we've not been in business for months and months," Daisy said with a frown.

Mrs Patmore sighed. "Look – it's very simple. Since the café is closed so that all the food stalls get a fair shake, I may as well help you. You know what they say – _Idle hands are the devil's tools. _Besides," she added, in an undertone, as she rolled up her sleeves, "I'm sorting this out, one way or another."

Of course, the stalls had not exactly been designed for three people, especially not when one of those people was Mrs Patmore-shaped. Mrs Patmore however, seemed supremely unaware of this. She stood toward the front of the stall, while Daisy and Alfred bumped around in the back.

Quite literally, as Jimmy observed when he managed to cadge a few free minutes for lunch.

"Oh, sorry," Daisy said, as she turned, smack into Alfred's chest.

"It's all right," Alfred said, reaching out his hands to steady her. He nodded down at the plate in her hand. "Careful – you don't want to drop that."

"No," Daisy agreed, staring up at him. Alfred's hands still curled around her shoulders.

Jimmy cleared his throat, and they broke apart suddenly. Daisy handed him the plate, and Jimmy frowned at the scone, thickly smothered with lemon curd. "This isn't what I" – he began, only for Mrs Patmore to lean over the counter and say, with unblinking eyes and a smile that belied her words, "_Eat up."_

As he did, Ivy returned to the stall. She had been dispatched with a tray containing bite-sized samples of scones and jam, to wander through the crowd, enticing customers to Daisy and Alfred's stand. Now the tray was empty, and as she waited for Mrs Patmore to replenish her stocks, she watched Daisy and Alfred with a frown.

"Whoops," Alfred said, as he knocked into Daisy. His hand shot out to her waist. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Fine…" Daisy said breathlessly, leaning into his touch.

"Is it not a bit crowded in there – with three?" Ivy asked.

"I can't say as I've noticed," Mrs Patmore said, as she calmed halved scones, and then quartered the halves. Behind her, Daisy and Alfred's hands bumped as they reached for the same jar of jam. Jimmy made a face that was only partly inspired by the lemon curd.

"It just seems a bit cramped, that's all." Ivy's voice wavered. "Don't you think they'd do better if they had a bit more room to work?"

Daisy deposited a paper bag in front of a customer, who peered inside and said, "I didn't want two strawberries and a raspberry" –

Daisy began to apologise, "Oh, I'm so sorry – I could've sworn" –

But Mrs Patmore reached under the counter and handed the woman an identical brown paper bag. "Two marmalades and an apricot, wasn't it?" she said pleasantly, before turning back to Ivy and saying, "Actually, I think we're doing fine as we are."

She deposited several little ceramic pots on Ivy's tray, and pointed at them as she explained, "Now remember, the one on the end is strawberry, and the one in the middle is raspberry."

"Right," Ivy said. She pressed her lips together and nodded.

"Oh, now, don't take on like that…"

"It's fine," Ivy said, smile askew on her face. "Really, it is. I mean – I'm happy for them…really." She stared down at her tray.

Mrs Patmore sighed, and extricated herself from the stall with some difficulty. She moved to stand beside Ivy, hands on her shoulders, offering a bracing kind of comfort. "It'll be all right, my girl – I promise. Believe me – I've seen it all before, and it's not the end of the world. Even if it does feel like it right now."

Ivy nodded, but she didn't look up.

"You know – I'm overdue a break. What's say we go and have a cup of tea – just the two of us?"

"All right," Ivy said in a small voice.

Mrs Patmore gave her a slight push in the necessary direction, before directing a look at Jimmy and twitching her head toward the stall. "Well," she said, "what are you waiting for? Get in there."

"Me?"

"Am I talking to someone else?"

"I'm just here for my lunch," Jimmy said, holding up his half-eaten scone as proof. Mrs Patmore was unmoved. "Well, have your lunch in _there_."

"I've got work to do," Jimmy said.

"Yes. You do. And right now, that work means making sure that all _my _hard work doesn't go to waste," Mrs Patmore said, as she manhandled him into the stall. "Three's a crowd – but that doesn't always have to be a bad thing. Just stand there and do nothing – _you_ certainly shouldn't find it too hard. I would ask if you'd prefer to comfort Ivy – but I think that poor girl's been through enough already."

* * *

That night, Thomas said, "I think we should go out to dinner tomorrow."

Jimmy stared up at the ceiling. It took him a minute to parse the words, because his shirt had been shoved up, and Thomas was speaking into his chest.

"What?" he said.

"I think," Thomas said, and he paused to rub his jaw against Jimmy's stomach, "we should go out to dinner tomorrow." The beginnings of stubble rasping against his skin made Jimmy shiver, but he maintained focus.

"Dinner," he repeated, even as his heart rolled over in his chest with dread.

"Mm," Thomas said. "To celebrate the end of Heritage Week." He placed his warm palms against Jimmy's stomach, then rested his chin on the back of his hands, regarding Jimmy carefully. "I won't try and shag you between courses, if that's what you're worried about."

Jimmy managed an uneasy smile. _My friend Sandra says she saw them at __Maurice's__ having dinner once. _"I don't know if I can believe you," he said. The teasing tone he was trying for came out a bit mangled.

Thomas moved his hands and kissed Jimmy's navel. Against his will, Jimmy found his hands wandering into Thomas' dark hair. "Won't even hold your hand under the table. Just dinner, I promise."

He couldn't_ (couldn't) _say yes – and at the same time, he didn't want to tell Thomas _no_.

Thomas clearly sensed an advantage and pressed it – sliding his palm between Jimmy's legs. "I thought it might be nice to go out, for a change," he said, and rubbed.

"Or we could stay in," Jimmy blurted, slightly too loud and too forcefully. Thomas paused, and with clumsy hands Jimmy pulled him up, and kissed him. In a lower voice (he hoped), he repeated, "We could stay in."

Thomas just looked at him for a long moment. "Yes," he said finally. "We could do that."

Jimmy kissed him again – and then again, harder, when Thomas pulled back and tried to speak – and he kept kissing Thomas, and touching him, until he was sure that the only thing on Thomas' mind was the kissing and touching – by which point he had both their cocks in his hands, and was slightly distracted himself. He tightened his grip and watched as Thomas thrust against him, feeling a detached sense of wonder – that his body could _do _this, could _feel _like this…

…that his body could want _Thomas' _body so very _much_.

"Did you ever think about this?" he asked suddenly, still looking down at where his hands encircled them.

"What?" Thomas asked, breath coming fast.

"_This,_" Jimmy said, with a movement of his hips that dragged his cock the length of Thomas'. "Did you used to think of it, you know – before we…"

Thomas shut his eyes at the sensation and pressed his lips together – but when he looked at Jimmy again, he said, almost nonchalant (except for the quick rise and fall of his chest), "Of course not."

Jimmy stared at him, in disbelief. "You didn't."

"Would have been against the rules, wouldn't it?" he said. "After you said no, and all."

"You're telling me you didn't even _think _about it? Not once?"

He wore that _expression _again – the aggressively blank one. Mildly he said, "I was tryin' to be a gentleman."

"Liar." He wouldn't stand for it. He would _make _Thomas tell him. He leaned in close and kissed Thomas' face as he whispered again, "Liar…liar…"

He stroked Thomas' erection, touching him steadily, stroking him again and again until Thomas was arching up against him, and his breath was coming in broken-sounding gasps. And Jimmy couldn't bear to stop, though he had planned to – so instead he bent down and put his mouth to Thomas' ear and said, "Tell me." But instead, Thomas turned away, pressing his face against the back of the cushions, and came.

Still, he touched Jimmy without any hesitation afterward, so Jimmy didn't think it had been deliberate – at least, not until afterwards, when they lay in silence for a moment, before Thomas said, "I suppose there's no point in asking if you're staying."

Jimmy didn't say anything.

"Right," Thomas said. "Thought not." He got to his feet.

Jimmy blinked up at him, because he hadn't meant to leave _right away. _ He'd – well…he'd always stayed for a _while_, at least. He'd thought that was _part _of it, this thing with Thomas – lying together afterwards, feeling warm and heavy, and trying not to fall asleep, with Thomas' fingers lazily stroking against his arm, or chest, or stomach. But now Thomas padded out of the room without even a backward glance.

Jimmy scrambled to his feet and began to pull his clothes on – but it was too late. By the time he'd dressed and made his way out into the hall, he could hear the sound of the shower. He stood there for a moment or two, uncertain – and then he let himself out, without saying goodbye.

* * *

The next day, things were quiet in the office – and it wasn't just because the Heritage Week had concluded, though that _did _seem to leave everyone with a faint, flat feeling (and a lot of clearing up to do). People shuffled around outside all morning, half-heartedly setting things to rights, while in the office, Thomas sat and tapped his pen against the desk.

Jimmy ignored him as best he could, but sometimes, instead of tapping the pen against his desk, Thomas tapped it against his _mouth_, and looked at _him. _Jimmy only caught the glancing end of these looks, because whenever he raised his head, Thomas' eyes slid quickly away, as if to pretend he hadn't been looking at Jimmy at all.

"_What_?" Jimmy asked eventually, shortly. If he thought anything, he thought that now the Heritage Week was over, the backdated awkwardness he'd anticipated when he'd first started shagging Thomas was making its long-awaited appearance in the office. Trust Thomas, he thought. Last night he wouldn't even stay in the same room as him, but he had no trouble mooning over Jimmy while he was supposed to be working. _  
_

"Jimmy," Thomas said, and then stopped.

"What _is_ it_?" _Jimmy demanded again.

"All right." Thomas gave a sanguine little shrug of his shoulders (the look on his face that was not _quite _so sanguine, however), and said, "I take it I'm the first bloke you've ever…" he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

And unnecessarily.

Jimmy stared at him. _This _was Thomas' version of 'keeping it separate'? Though almost immediately, he had to concede that, since none of their body parts were currently touching, yes…it probably _was. _He settled for glaring at Thomas and saying, "I don't see how that has anything to do with _work_." He typed a sentence of nonsense to underscore his point, fingers mashing loudly on the keys.

"It doesn't," Thomas said. He held Jimmy's gaze. "But it's important."

Suddenly, belatedly, the actual import of Thomas' question hit him. "You're asking me if I've ever _shagged_ another bloke?"

"I'm not _asking, _exactly," Thomas pointed out – and, yes – he _had_ said 'I take it I'm the first bloke you've ever…' as if it was ridiculously apparent that he _was_. "I didn't think I needed to."

He still sounded quite calm – if also very…careful. It made Jimmy want to throw things – because _of course _Thomas had noticed. Handjobs. His face burned. He'd thought _handjobs _were enough to keep Thomas happy – _Thomas, _who had spent his entire stint as a tour guide staging his own personal gay Kama Sutra within the walls of Downton. Mr _"And if you look to your left, you will see…the room where I take __all__ my prospective shags." _

"Right – because it's so bloody obvious," Jimmy said.

Thomas frowned at him. "I just – think we should talk about it, that's all."

"Why? So you can give me some _tips?" _Anger churned sickly in his stomach. _Handjobs. _He'd honestly thought _handjobs _would be enough, when Thomas' last boyfriend had been –

"Jimmy" –

"Well, if you've got any _complaints _about it_, _you can bloody well keep them to yourself," he spat, then turned and marched out of the office, even though it was a full hour before he was due to take his lunch break.

* * *

He sat and sulked in the café while Daisy and Alfred twittered happily at another table, and Mrs Patmore bustled around the café, pointedly _not _calling Daisy back to work. Granted, the place _was_ empty, except for four women in the corner who delicately grazed upon sandwich quarters, like refined gazelles.

"Sometimes you've just got to sit back and enjoy the quiet. That's what I always say," Mrs Patmore said, as she inflicted a vigorous brushing upon the floor.

"Since when?" Jimmy muttered. In his experience, Mrs Patmore had always tended more toward the 'If you have enough breath to make conversation, then you're probably not working hard enough' school of thought.

"Since now," she said, evenly enough, and then straightened, leaning against the handle of her sweeping brush. "What's wrong with you? Is His Nibs not happy with the Heritage Week? I'd have thought he'd be over the moon."

Jimmy bit back the part of him that wanted to snap that _His Nibs_ was far too busy comparing Jimmy's lack of sexual prowess to the bloody _Duke_. They'd probably fucked while hanging upside-down from the ceiling. Like _bats_.

"You know Thomas," Jimmy said, with a tight smile. "He's never happy."

"Where's this coming from, then?" Mrs Patmore asked, eyebrows shooting upwards. "I thought you two were thick as thieves lately. Of course…they also say there's no honour among thieves…"

Jimmy scowled down at the table. He couldn't imagine the Duke being shocked by _anything_. He probably owned a sex-swing.

His musings were interrupted by a cloth landing on the table in front of him. He looked up at Mrs Patmore.

"If you're going to sit here with a face that spoils everyone's dinner, you can at least make yourself useful and clean up," she said.

"You want me to _wipe tables _for you?"

"Hard work is good for the soul," Mrs Patmore said firmly (he'd known that '_enjoy the quiet'_ act was just that). She cast a jaundiced eye over him. "You should try it sometimes, and find out."

* * *

When he finally returned from his extremely extended lunch break, he only got as far as coldly ignoring Thomas' urgent, "Jimmy" – before Mr Carson popped his head around the door, and said, "I assume we _are _still meeting today, Thomas?"

"Of course, Mr Carson," Thomas said smoothly, though Jimmy could feel his gaze darting toward him.

"Then perhaps you would care to _explain _to Mrs Hughes and myself why we have been waiting for the past half-hour in my office?"

The meeting to analyse the Heritage Week dragged on and on, while Jimmy sat in the corner, ostensibly to take notes. Instead, he jigged his foot against the leg of the desk and thought about Thomas. And the Duke. And sex.

It had bothered him, before – the thought of Thomas and the Duke. And sex. But oddly enough, it bothered him even more _now. _He couldn't _bear _the thought of Thomas – _comparing _them. It…_that_…the things that he and Thomas _did_ – they belonged purely to _them _(at least, that was what it felt like to Jimmy)_, _and there was no room for any third party.

He couldn't bear the thought of Thomas comparing them – and _Jimmy _falling short. He wasn't going to _stand_ for it.

Finally, the background drone of Mr Carson's voice faded away.

Apparently, no-one else had been listening to him either, because there was a long, expectant moment of silence before Thomas blinked and said, "Oh. Yes."

Another moment of silence, after which Mr Carson coughed and hinted, "You have nothing to add?"

"Not really," Thomas said. Jimmy could feel the pressure of his eyes like a physical touch. He didn't look up. "I think you said everything there is to say, Mr Carson. Several times over, as a matter of fact."

"Well, _I _have something to add," Mrs Hughes said. "If that's all right with you, Mr Carson," she added, in a voice that very much didn't care whether it was, or not.

"Quite," Mr Carson said.

"In that case – congratulations, Thomas. In spite of some _minor _teething troubles," this was addressed to Mr Carson, "this week has been a great success. So well done. To both of you," she finished, with a brief smile in Jimmy's direction. "Wouldn't you agree, Mr Carson?"

Mr Carson cleared his throat, and coughed out a grudging agreement.

"Now – off you go. _Home. _An early night's in order – for _all_ of us – after the past few days."

* * *

In spite of her words, and the fact that there were only ten more minutes left in the working day, neither of them seemed particularly inclined to take Mrs Hughes' advice when they got back to their office. Jimmy immediately sat back down in his chair, while Thomas lingered by his desk.

"Jimmy," he said. Jimmy stared down at his computer.

"Jimmy," Thomas repeated, coming a little closer. "Look – about earlier" – Jimmy clenched his hands into fists and rubbed them against his thighs.

Thomas moved to stand directly in front of him, boxing him in, impossible to ignore. "_Jimmy. _I didn't mean" – he began, but Jimmy took a deep breath, and stood. Their bodies slid together, and Thomas immediately went to take a step back, but Jimmy grabbed his wrist, keeping him in place.

"Have you got any?" he asked, pleased that his voice came out so steady, if lower than usual. His thumb rubbed against the thin skin of Thomas' wrist. Thomas' breath caught.

"What?" he said.

Jimmy leaned up and took Thomas' bottom lip between his teeth. He bit it softly, then released it. "_Complaints_," he said.

Thomas blinked once. "No…" he said, and closed his eyes when Jimmy pressed forward again – this time to touch his tongue delicately to Thomas' mouth - to the place he'd just bitten. Thomas' voice wavered slightly, "…no…complaints."

"Good," Jimmy breathed. "Because I'd hate to think you were just – lying back and thinking of England the entire time." He insinuated his thigh between Thomas' legs.

"What happened to – _not bringing this into the office_?" Thomas asked. Jimmy slid an arm around his back, bringing them even closer together.

"Well _you_ started it," he said matter-of-factly – though strangely enough he wasn't thinking of the morning when he said it. Instead, he was remembering the night of the exhibition, when Thomas had disappeared off with the Duke.

Thomas looked at him for a long moment. Jimmy stared back and raised his eyebrows challengingly.

And then, suddenly, Thomas was kissing him, and pushing him hard against the bookshelves, though his hand immediately wrapped around the back of Jimmy's head, stopping him from banging it. Jimmy's hands went straight to Thomas' shirt, yanking it out of Thomas' trousers, and then fumbling with the button and zipper. His heart pounded in his ears as he slid his hand into Thomas' pants. He was already hard, and they hadn't even really _done _anything.

_Just try and tell me you're thinking about anyone else right now, _Jimmy thought. _I won't believe you. _

Thomas did not seem at all inclined to argue this, however, returning Jimmy's kisses with as much desperate want as Jimmy felt. Jimmy closed his eyes for a moment, and tried to gather himself, stomach turning over with nerves and anticipation. Because he was going to _do it_ – he was going to get down on his knees for Thomas, right now –

There was a knock on the door – which opened at almost the same second, leaving them no time to even move apart as Ivy entered the office, already mid-sentence –

" – sorry Mr Barrow, but Mrs Hughes was" –

She stopped dead and there was a moment of frozen silence as she took in the tableau in front of her, before she clapped a hand over her mouth and backed toward the door, eyes wide and voice muffled as she said, " – oh. I'm sorry – I didn't…know – s-sorry, I" –

The door closed behind her – and there was another moment of frozen silence before Jimmy yanked his hand out of Thomas' pants and cursed, "Shit shit _shit," _practically vaulting over Thomas as he followed her.


	27. Chapter 27

I need to finish this thing the way Jimmy needs to come to terms with his sexuality.

* * *

Panic spurred him onwards, and he caught up with Ivy almost immediately, grabbing her shoulder and wrenching her around to face him.

"Ivy – _Ivy,"_ he said, even as she immediately began to mumble over his words, gaze rising no higher than his chest, "Jimmy, sorry, it's – I have to…go and" –

"Ivy – _listen – _listen to me – in the office, what you saw – it really wasn't what you think" –

Her eyes snapped up to meet his then, and even though her cheeks turned red, she whisper-hissed with surprising force, "Your hand was down his _pants, _Jimmy. Or did I _imagine_ that?"

_Fuck._

"You can't say anything," he said abruptly. "You can't say" –

"Oh my god," she said, shaking her head. Her hand came up to her mouth again. "This is – I can't believe it. Oh my _god – _you and Mr Barrow_" – _

"Ivy – _Ivy, _are you _listening_ to me?" he said, grasping both her shoulders urgently. "You can't" –

"James? Ivy?" came a voice from behind him, and he whirled around. Mrs Hughes looked between them. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine, Mrs Hughes. Everything is fine. _Isn't it_, Ivy?" He widened his eyes at her, willing her to agree.

"Fine," Ivy said eventually – not without effort.

Mrs Hughes' eyebrows rose, but she only said, "As long as you're sure." Still, she didn't take her eyes off Ivy. "Did you get the chance to ask Mr Barrow" –

Ivy made a noise in her throat, a kind of suppressed squeak, and – "Yes!" Jimmy interrupted. Mrs Hughes turned her attention toward him, eyes as sharp as knives. He wondered if she ever blinked. "Thom – Mr Barrow says he'll do it first thing in the morning."

"Does he?" she said, and even though she said it quite mildly, Jimmy got the sinking feeling that whatever Ivy had been meant to ask didn't lend itself to the 'do it first thing in the morning' excuse. But Mrs Hughes only directed a last, penetrating glance between them as she moved away.

Jimmy pulled Ivy around the corner and down another corridor. This time, she didn't object.

"What did she even want?" he asked. "Mrs Hughes."

"She wanted to know if he'd be interested in part of a large courgette," Ivy said. She still sounded dazed. "One of her friends has been growing them in his polytunnel, and she said she'd ask…" She blinked at Jimmy several times, gaze slowly becoming more focused. "Why does that even _matter _right now – when you and Mr Barrow were – oh my _god._"

"You can't tell anyone," he stressed again. "If Miss O'Brien knew – _listen, Ivy – _if _she_ knew, she'd start making trouble and" –

"You mean it's been going on _all this time_?" she interrupted, sliding immediately off the point.

"What? _No. _No, of course not."

"Then what's it got to do with" – she stopped. "How long _have_ you been…together, then?"

His stomach did a funny kind of roll at the question. "We're not _together."_

"What?" Ivy frowned. "Oh yes, because what I saw was a magic eye picture, is that it? I'm not _thick, _no matter what you might think_._" She looked away.

"No," he said. "That's not what – I mean, _yes, _we're…" he trailed off, not wanting to use the word 'together' but unable to think of a satisfactory replacement, "– but it's not for _real._"

Ivy stared at him. "What d'you mean – 'it's not for real'?"

"It's just – temporary," he said. Ivy's eyes were fixed on his, demanding more. "It's – Thomas has been through a hard time lately…you know, with his friend – dying, and everything. Well…I'm just – helping him out until he – he feels better."

"You're telling me you're _sleeping with him_ because his friend's died?" Ivy said. Enlightenment failed to dawn on her face. She sounded incredulous, if anything.

"It's complicated," Jimmy muttered, aware of how weak that sounded. Then he rallied, "But you remember what he was like when it happened – he wasn't even _here, _he couldn't do his _job."_

Ivy shook her head – though it seemed more in general disbelief than anything specific.

Gathering force and momentum, Jimmy continued,_ "_If it wasn't _me, _he'd just find something else, some_one _else…and he'd probably throw his whole life out the window while he did it. At least I'm" – he had to pause, because as much as he'd _thought _about it, he'd never actually verbalized his ideas before, "– I'm…keeping him together until he can do it for himself."

The explanation felt too thin and small to cover the sprawling depth of what was happening with Thomas. It certainly didn't reveal the less noble aspect of the whole enterprise – the way Jimmy found himself _wanting _Thomas – but that was hardly relevant information, he assured himself. And well…what he'd said _was _the truth, when he got right down to it, wasn't it?

Ivy's mouth opened and then closed as she tried to absorb this. "Anyone else would just send a sympathy card."

He glared at her. "It's not _funny._"

"No, it's not," she immediately agreed, surprisingly fierce. "It's _ridiculous. _You can't just – just go around _sleeping_ with people because you feel _sorry_ for them, Jimmy."

He had the sudden, inappropriate urge to roll his eyes. He wasn't sleeping with _people, _he was sleeping with _Thomas. _There was a difference. Ivy made him sound like a hypersexed Mother Theresa.

"_And_ it's all just a waste of time anyway, since you're never going to be able to _fix _Mr Barrow, no matter _how _good you think you are." She shook her head again, as if she couldn't believe his obtuseness. "Everyone knows he was _stupid _in love with Edward Courtenay" –

She stopped very suddenly with a quiet, "…_oh," _eyes widening. Jimmy frowned. He must have taken a step back, though he didn't remember doing it, because he was standing further away from Ivy than he had been just a moment ago.

"Oh, _Jimmy…"_ Her hand came up as if to touch him, only to waver and drop to her side again.

They just looked at each other, Ivy with that strange worried expression on her face. Her mouth worked, as if she wanted to say something important – something Jimmy knew he wouldn't want to hear, but in the end, all she said was, "I won't tell anyone. I promise."

Thomas was still in the office when he returned – almost in the exact same spot Jimmy had left him, though he had tidied himself up a bit. His trousers were zipped up, at least.

He started when Jimmy came in. "What did she" –

"It's all right. She's not going to say anything." Jimmy leaned against the door. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes.

He heard Thomas moving to stand right in front of him, but when he felt Thomas' hands touch his waist, trying to pull him forward and hold him, he resisted and said, "_Don't_."

They'd only _just _been caught – and Thomas wanted to, what? See if lightning struck twice?

Still, he felt too – too _battered _to be properly angry (even though there was no reason for that – the confrontation with Ivy had gone about as well as it _could _go, and it wasn't as if she'd said anything that _mattered_). When he opened his eyes, he said, with humour so diluted it mightn't have been there at all, "I don't fancy explaining this to Mrs Hughes – do you?"

Thomas didn't grant his unspoken request for space – in fact, he moved even closer and looked at him with an expression Jimmy couldn't read. "Then come home with me," he said.

"_Thomas,_" he said, and ran a hand through his hair, because _how _could Thomas not _understand _this yet_? _They'd just been _found out. _The last thing they needed to do was _flaunt it_. Ivy was definitely going to notice this time if he was late home.

"I _mean _it," Thomas said, and his hand found Jimmy's. Although Jimmy folded his fingers up tight, Thomas still contrived to wind his around them. "Come home with me. Please, Jimmy."

Mutely, he shook his head. He hatedtelling Thomas no when Thomas looked at him like _that – _like he _needed _Jimmy to say yes, like all his happiness was wrapped up in Jimmy's answer, but –

_Everyone knows he was __stupid__ in love with Edward Courtenay, _a voice noted inside his head – as if it were reminding him of something he'd forgotten.

"Ivy already knows," Thomas pointed out. "Not going home with me won't magically make her _un_know it."

It was a persuasive line of reasoning – and it was even true, he supposed. Jimmy raked his hand through his hair again, undecided. If he _did_ go straight back to the house, Ivy would want to _talk _more _– _he just knew it. And he remembered _something _about Daisy coming over…to do accounts with Alfred…?

It had already been a shit day. The last thing he wanted or needed was to heap on more fertilizer. He looked at Thomas.

"Fuck it," he decided.

* * *

He was a little worried that, once they got home (not _home, _he quickly corrected, but _Thomas' house_) that Thomas would want to talk, too…and _that _was a conversation he looked forward to even less than the upcoming heart-to-heart with Ivy.

But when Thomas unlocked the front door and ushered Jimmy inside, it turned out he wasn't interested in talking _at all_. Instead, he took Jimmy's hand and led him in to the sitting room. He flicked the lights to their lowest setting, creating a warm, dim atmosphere, and then squeezed Jimmy's fingers before letting go.

"Stay there," he said, and kissed Jimmy – though he pulled away as soon as Jimmy started to kiss back, and left the room. When he returned, he was carrying a dark-coloured blanket and some pillows. In silence, he pushed the coffee table forward, until it almost touched the television, and then spread the blanket and pillows on the floor.

"What" – Jimmy said, but Thomas pulled him close and breathed a, "Sssh," into his ear. Thomas shushed him again when he said, "Thomas" – and when he tried to speak for a third time, Thomas placed his index finger over Jimmy's parted lips – and held it there until Jimmy blew out an exasperated breath and finally closed his mouth. Actually, Thomas kept his finger in place even longer, still brushing against Jimmy's lips – as if he still didn't quite trust Jimmy to be silent. And - as soon as he lifted his hand away, Jimmy did take an audible breath in – though mostly just to make Thomas frown. He kept to the letter of this strange new law if not its spirit by only mouthing, very deliberately, '_Happy now?'_

"_Thrilled_," Thomas barely murmured back.

It was odd, but whatever line of thought Thomas was following – it fit. The room was soaked in silence – it rolled over them both in great, heavy waves, slowing everything down, and giving the tiniest of motions a strange resonance. It gave Jimmy the peculiar sensation of being underwater.

Thomas began to undo Jimmy's shirt, slowly, taking his time with each button, and pushing Jimmy's hands away whenever he tried to help. In the end, Jimmy let his hands rest awkwardly by his sides. Every time a new bit of skin was revealed, Thomas paused to touch it with fingers or lips. Light, barely there touches, that still managed to create a kind of buzz deep inside Jimmy – a low, insistent hum of pleasure that made his whole body lean forward, blindly seeking more. He tried to return the favour, but every time, Thomas twisted out of reach of his fingers, or took hold of Jimmy's hands only to press them back down against his sides – until Jimmy got the unspoken message and finally stood still under the onslaught of tenderness.

Thomas undid his cuffs, and then pulled Jimmy's bared wrist to his mouth for a kiss. He slid the shirt off Jimmy's shoulders and down his arms, and then ran his thumb across the crease of Jimmy's inner elbow. When Thomas knelt down and pulled off his shoes and socks, he took a moment to stroke the back of his knuckles against the arch of Jimmy's foot, and then turned his face into Jimmy's trouser-covered knee. At that, Jimmy's hands slid into Thomas' hair. He couldn't help it – it felt like he was being swept away, drowning slowly_, _and Thomas was the only solid thing left in the world.

Thomas carefully detached Jimmy's hands, removing them from his hair, and stood, fingers slipping just barely inside Jimmy's waistband as he unfastened the button of his trousers and then slid down the zip. When he pushed the fabric down Jimmy's legs, followed by his pants, Thomas paused for a moment to curl his fingers around Jimmy's hips, as if he were assembling a jigsaw, measuring how well their bodies fit together.

The strange thing was, all these slow careful touches didn't feel _seductive_ so much as they felt deeply _inquisitive_…like Thomas was _studying_ him, trying to learn him by heart. For some reason, that idea – the feeling that Thomas wanted to know every part of him utterly – sent heavy surges of heat through his body.

He lifted up one leg, and then the other, kicking away his trousers and pants, and then he was standing naked in front of Thomas, who was still fully clothed. He felt off-balance by this and reached out, but Thomas took a step back.

"Lie down," he said, finally breaking the silence.

Jimmy hesitated, and Thomas moved toward him again. He couldn't speak yet – it felt like his voice had been rubbed raw by all Thomas' care. He did want to hold Thomas though, very much, and so the instant Thomas was within touching distance his arms immediately went around Thomas' shoulders, clothes scraping and catching against Jimmy's bare skin in a way that made him shudder, made both excited and uneasy by the sensation.

"Lie down, Jimmy. Please?" Thomas asked again, kissing just under his ear. And so Jimmy lowered himself to the blanket, which was scratchy and soft in equal measure. Thomas looked down at him, holding his gaze as he began to strip. He didn't draw it out, the way he had with Jimmy – he shed his clothes with quick, almost rough movements, before dropping down onto the blanket too.

But if Jimmy had thought this heralded a return to a more familiar scene, he was wrong, because as soon as he reached out for Thomas, Thomas caught hold of his wrists, and placed a kiss in the very centre of each of Jimmy's palms. Then he nudged Jimmy backwards, pinning his hands just above his head, on either side of the pillow – not roughly, but firmly. And Jimmy went along with this without protest – without even the _thought_ of protest. It felt as if everything – the low lighting, the almost-silence, the way Thomas had touched him…had all come together like a spell – and melted part of him, leaving him open, curiously malleable.

He let himself be pressed down onto the blanket, and looked up into Thomas' eyes, waiting. Thomas hovered over him – their only point of connection where his fingers curled around Jimmy's wrists – before he finally lowered himself to kiss Jimmy's face. Not just once, but over and over, touching his mouth to Jimmy's forehead and cheeks and nose and chin with the same unhurried focus with which he had undressed Jimmy earlier.

Jimmy's lips parted immediately when Thomas finally pressed their mouths together – but Thomas didn't deepen the kiss, just brushed Jimmy's lips with his again and again, steady and light, retreating whenever Jimmy tried to force him to change his pace.

It made Jimmy squirm on the blanket, want building up to an unbearable pitch as Thomas continued to hold off on progressing any further, evading the demands of Jimmy's mouth, and holding his hands down to prevent Jimmy from touching _him_. Jimmy pushed against the blanket-covered floor and then rolled his body upwards, shoulders to hips, mindless and desperate to make contact with Thomas' body. His legs tensed and twisted, and he brought his left knee up, rubbing the inside of his thigh against Thomas' leg.

"_Please,_" he said – the word was thick in his mouth…it felt like he'd forgotten how to talk, but Thomas didn't seem like he was _ever _going to touch him properly, and Jimmy _needed _– "Please, Thomas."

And _finally, _Thomas kissed him properly, and for a long time, tongue stroking against Jimmy's and stealing his breath.

When Thomas broke away and moved back, taking his weight on his knees, Jimmy was so frustrated by the sudden withdrawal that he failed, for a long moment, to realize that his hands were now free.

"I want to do something," Thomas said, looking down at him. Jimmy watched the rise and fall of his chest.

"Glad to hear it," Jimmy said, though that was mostly to save face. As maddening as it had been, the careful sweetness Thomas had heaped upon him caught like a fish-hook in his chest and made his voice rough.

Thomas leaned over to the side, sliding his hands under the edges of the blanket. When he straightened up, he had something in his palm – a small bottle.

Jimmy's heart thumped once against the walls of his chest, and cold unease swirled its way into the eddy of want and anticipation that washed through his body. He swallowed. "Thomas – I don't think" –

Thomas bent down and kissed him softly. "Good," he said. "_Don't_ think."

Jimmy _meant _to object, he was certain he did…except that when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Thomas ran a hand through his hair, and looked down at him –

- and Jimmy took a breath, and let his eyes fall shut.

He heard the cap of the bottle click open, and then…nothing.

He kept his eyes closed, and waited – for long enough that surely, Thomas _should _have done _something_ by now – before the awful thought occurred to him – that Thomas wasn't satisfied with this unvoiced agreement…and was going to make Jimmy _ask _for this thing that he wasn't even sure he wanted. He didn't know what disturbed him more – the almost-certainty he would _never_ ask…or the niggling possibility that he _might_.

He opened his eyes – and just as he'd thought, Thomas was looking at him. But he wasn't sitting back and waiting him out, trying to force Jimmy's hand – on the contrary, Thomas wasn't waiting at all. His face was set, concentrating, and his right hand reached around behind him – Jimmy couldn't see anything beyond the minute flexing of his arm, but it didn't matter, he _knew _what Thomas was doing_. _His heart skipped oddly in his chest.

"Oh," he said, somewhat nonsensically. "It's – you, I thought" –

"Sssh," Thomas said, and bent forward, to kiss Jimmy quiet. "It's fine – don't worry. Don't worry about it."

He let Thomas anoint him with slippery hands - a teeth-grittingly compelling sensation - and then maneuver himself into position, a leg on either side of Jimmy's torso. Then he smiled the barest smile, and placed a hand on Jimmy's chest and said, "All right?"

Jimmy managed to nod, though the thought, quite clear and perfectly formed, came almost from outside him - _I'm not ready for this. _

Then Thomas was reaching behind himself to guide himself onto Jimmy's cock, sinking down slowly, inch by steady inch, until he was flush with Jimmy's pelvis and Jimmy was _inside him – _

And he _wasn't _ready for this – _no-one _could be ready for this. You couldn't prepare for something like _this_ any more than you could prepare for a car crash, or sudden illness, or death. The most Jimmy could hope to do was brace himself, and hope he came through it all in one piece.

He didn't – he _truly _didn't mean that as a bad thing…Thomas had made them fit together perfectly – he had reached out and turned Jimmy like a key in a lock…and every small roll of his hips sent sunbursts of pleasure down Jimmy's spine, made his whole body down to the tips of his fingers tingle and spark.

So it was _good_…but to a wildly unlikely degree. It felt…profound – _defining_ in a way that things that were entirely and wholly _good_ usually weren't, in Jimmy's experience.

Thomas continued to shift carefully over him, and Jimmy's hands traced his hips, before feathering across his stomach and chest, and then down to Thomas' cock, which he stroked with erratic, fitful motions, quite beyond skill or subtlety. _Connected, _he thought. _We're connected – right at this very second, _and he had to close his eyes for a beat.

"Jimmy," Thomas said, moving above him, "Jimmy…_Jimmy…_" and he began to rock faster. Jimmy gave a kind of choking gasp as his whole body drew up tight, the soles of his feet cramping from how hard he was clenching them. Thomas was still speaking, but all Jimmy could do was stare in wondering incomprehension at his mouth, shaping words Jimmy could no longer hear, before he had to squeeze his eyes shut as a wave of sensation smashed into him…dragged him under…and finally left him weak and breathless on the other side, devastated by pleasure.

* * *

It wasn't until some minutes later, when they were lying side by side on the rucked up blanket, that clear thought began to return – and it hit Jimmy that Thomas had had to take responsibility for his own gratification toward the end.

He turned his head to the side. "Sorry," he said. "I wasn't" –

Thomas turned his own head to face Jimmy. "Don't be," he said. The moment stretched out as they kept looking at each other, and Jimmy felt Thomas' hand grip his wrist. "Stay."

And just like that, reality began to seep in, all the more chilling because it had been held at bay for so long. Jimmy didn't answer, just looked away, but Thomas, with expertly awful timing pressed the issue, keeping hold of his hand and shifting even closer, crowding him.

He'd just _fucked _Thomas. It hit him with speed and force, knocking all the breath out of his body in a flash of pure white panic.

"_Stay_," Thomas said again – more a demand than a request – and kissed Jimmy's mouth before just barely moving back. Jimmy flicked his eyes to the side, trying to avoid his gaze, and half-shook his head.

Thomas swooped in again, kissing him once, twice, three times – harder with each repetition. "Stay," he said. Jimmy twisted his head to try and evade his mouth. His palms were sweating. "_Thomas" – _

He didn't know how he was going to complete the sentence, but Thomas didn't give him the chance, holding Jimmy's face still between his hands and pressing his mouth against Jimmy's cheeks and forehead and chin – exactly as he'd done earlier…only nothing _like _earlier, because this time all the lightness and restraint was gone, replaced with a kind of disjointed desperation. "Stay – _just stay – _Jimmy"- he didn't even pull back to speak, instead mashing the words against Jimmy's skin between stifling kisses.

Jimmy kept trying to turn his face, but Thomas wouldn't let him go. He couldn't breathe. "Thomas" – he managed to cough-choke out. He'd just _fucked _Thomas, and if he didn't leave, Ivy would _know. _"Thomas – don't" – his heart banged against his ribs. If he didn't go home _right now, _Ivy would know exactly what he had just done with Thomas –

("Don't," Thomas repeated, pressing his nose hard against Jimmy's cheek, "– just _stay here" –) _

- and of course that didn't make sense, since Ivy knew about them, yes, but not to that degree. But then, it didn't _have _to make sense…because _none_ of this – him and Thomas and _fucking,_ made _any sense at all_ and _that_ didn't make any of it one bit less true. And so if he didn't _leave, _Ivy would _know _exactly what he and Thomas had done, and all the secret private things Jimmy'd felt while they'd done it – and he couldn't _stand _it, he couldn't, he _couldn't - _

"Thomas_," _he managed to wrench his face to the side, but Thomas followed him. "_Thomas"_ – the word was muffled by Thomas' mouth, and Jimmy could hardly even hear himself over _Stay _and _Don't – _

"_Thomas" – _he hit Thomas' shoulder with the flat of his hand, and then again, harder, when Thomas didn't seem to notice, dragging his lips over Jimmy's cheek and jaw - "Thomas – _don't, _I – _stop_" –

He was suffocating under Thomas' hands and mouth – and he squirmed on the floor, getting his hands around the curve of Thomas' shoulders, trying to get some air, some _space_ – and sheer, blind panic built to a screaming pitch inside of him and finally, something just _snapped_.

He said it, out loud – "_I can't, alright?! I can't!"_

The words rang in the air and then everything went very still. Jimmy had a moment to become hyper-aware of his fingers, curled tight into Thomas' shoulders, Thomas unmoving above him – before Thomas flinched very slightly, and rolled off him.

Jimmy sat up, arms behind his body and hands flat on the floor, supporting his weight. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out several times. His heart rate slowed and the chokehold of fear loosened, and he risked a look at Thomas – who had his back up against the sofa. There was something in the way he sat that made Jimmy's chest go tight, and he said, "Thomas, I" –

" – can't stay," Thomas finished. "Yes, I think I got that." His tone was by now mildly sardonic and perfectly composed – but it was the slight hunch of his shoulders that made Jimmy scoot nearer, and say (stupidly, but he would have said anything just then), "Just for now. But when things have settled" –

Thomas looked at him, quite evenly, and the lie crawled back down Jimmy's throat.

"Right," he said, without any inflection at all.

Jimmy gathered his clothes in silence, and Thomas didn't move, didn't even look at him, elbows on his knees, and hands dangling loosely down. Jimmy threw his shirt and trousers on quickly, perturbed by Thomas' lack of scrutiny – and when he was finally dressed, he hesitated. He had to leave – but he didn't want it to be like _this_.

"What're you waiting for? You should know where the door is by now," Thomas said, words all sharp, slicing corners. The sight of his bare feet on the floor made something catch in Jimmy's throat.

He got down on his knees and shuffled across the short space of floor until he was at Thomas' side. He wanted to say something – not just _something, _the _right _thing. But, of course, that wasn't going to happen. He settled for kissing Thomas' cheek and saying, inadequately, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Thomas didn't acknowledge this in any way, which made Jimmy's stomach clench up like a fist. But the clock on the table in the corner ticked louder and louder with every second that passed, and finally Jimmy lurched to his feet.

* * *

The house was dark again when he got back – though this time, Ivy did not make a fleecy appearance from the wings.

The light in her bedroom, however, was still on, and Jimmy made sure to make a little noise – just enough to be noticeable – as he made his way past.


	28. Chapter 28

Breakfast the following morning was a quiet affair. Well, _Alfred_ blathered non-stop about equity and market value and vesting schedules with the kind of zeal only frustrated lust could inspire…but ignoring Alfred was part of Jimmy's routine by now, and he spent his time staring down at his mug of tea. Or, more accurately, staring at his own hands as they curled around his mug of tea – they looked odd to him somehow, as if they belonged to someone else.

Ivy was silent too, poking distractedly at her eggs – "I'm just a bit tired, that's all," she said when Alfred asked, but every time Jimmy looked up, it was to find her observing him. Whenever their eyes met, they both glanced away immediately, but still, it happened, and kept happening.

Though that did make him uneasy, Jimmy couldn't quite access the heart-numbing fear he had felt last night, the certainty that Ivy would read the truth of what had happened between he and Thomas as easily as a brand logo on a t-shirt. That was gone, made ridiculous by the light of day. On the other hand, what he and Thomas had done – what he had done _to _Thomas…he didn't think about that, not _consciously _at any rate, but it was still present_, _only barely kept in the background_. N_ot intruding, exactly… Just _there_ every time Jimmy breathed, or blinked.

In a strange way, it felt to Jimmy like being a child again – full of amazement at the way his body could just – _do things…_like turn a somersault or ride a bike. Every motion he made inspired a kind of wonder in him – from the way his hands lifted the mug of (lukewarm) tea to his lips, to the way his legs splayed out in the chair, right foot tapping against the floor. It was ridiculous, of course, but he couldn't shake the feeling. His body remembered what had happened last night every bit as well as his mind did – and his body would _hold _that memory…would know what to do if it ever happened again.

That last gave him a moment's pause, because – _was _it going to happen again? Did he even _want _it to? His _body _certainly did…and to return to tidier acts like handjobs (well, _metaphorically_ tidier) seemed false and nonsensical now…and a waste of time besides. It had _happened, _and there was no going back. He knew that should have jarred him into apprehension…but he couldn't think properly. Wonder kept looming over him, overshadowing every negative reaction.

He took another sip of by-now-cold tea and grimaced at the taste. He set his mug down and looked up. Ivy turned her head away with a jerk, a second too late.

" – think?" Alfred finished, and looked expectantly between them.

"I…sorry, Alfred, I didn't quite follow that," Ivy said, finally.

"Well, alright – it is a bit complicated…but, in _general_, what do you think?" he said. He deflated when he met their blank stares. "You know, sometimes I feel like no-one pays any attention to me."

"That's surprising – only sometimes?" Jimmy muttered, but the insult was half-hearted at best.

* * *

He stood for a second in the open doorway of the office, watching the top of Thomas' head as he bent over his work. Jimmy took a deep breath that somehow went astray before it hit his lungs. Last night Thomas had – had wrapped himself up and given his body as a gift to Jimmy…but just then he remembered how badly the evening had ended, and he took another breath, wonder becoming streaked with apprehension.

"Thomas," he said, to make him look up.

"Jimmy," Thomas acknowledged. "Good morning." He smiled and after a moment, Jimmy smiled back, but by then, Thomas had already turned back to his papers.

Jimmy stood in the doorway for a moment, thrown, before coming inside. He slung his coat across the back of his chair and turned his computer on. While he waited for it to load up, he glanced at Thomas, whose dark head remained fixed over his work.

He hadn't expected it to go like this. Of course, he hadn't really thought at all about how it might go. Maybe that was the problem.

He had _hurt _Thomas last night. Thomas had held him and stroked his hair, and fitted Jimmy's body against his, fitted Jimmy's body _inside _his own body, like the most amazing magic trick in the world – and in return, Jimmy had _hurt_ him. It had been unavoidable, but still…Jimmy felt a sympathetic pain in his chest, and squared his shoulders. He was going to make it right.

He got to his feet and approached the desk. He waited until it became clear that Thomas wasn't going to look up, and then he cleared his throat. Thomas bestowed a look of blankest inquiry upon him, but he pressed ahead. "Thomas – look, about…last night" –

Thomas went very still for a moment, and then looked down again, stacking his papers and shuffling them. "Oh. That," he said. "It's fine."

"_No_," Jimmy said, more forcefully than he meant to – remembering Thomas sitting back against the sofa, trying so hard to pretend, while every little movement of his body betrayed the truth. "It _isn't_. I'm – I'm sorry, all right?"

Thomas looked up at him again. His fingers tapped against the table. "All right," he echoed.

Jimmy blinked. "Really?"

"Of course." It was too easy. It _shouldn't _be so easy.

Jimmy took a step closer, until the toe of his shoes pressed against the side of Thomas' desk, and lowered his voice. "I'll make it up to you," he said. "I will. I promise."

Thomas smiled at him again, just as he had earlier, a quick smile that triggered a frown in Jimmy rather than a smile. "We shouldn't talk about that just now," Thomas said, and checked his watch before getting to his feet. "I'm due to meet Mr Carson…five minutes ago."

"Well…you'd better hurry then," Jimmy said, even though he knew Thomas' meeting with Mr Carson wasn't for another half-hour. Everything clearly _wasn't_ all right, despite the front Thomas was putting up.

"I'll see you later," he couldn't stop himself from calling as Thomas reached the door. And louder, when he didn't get a response, "Thomas?"

He paused at that, then turned in Jimmy's direction. It was odd, despite the fact that Thomas was looking right at him, at the same time it felt like he hadn't met Jimmy's eyes once since he'd stepped into the office. Jimmy kept his gaze locked on Thomas, until finally, he nodded.

* * *

Thomas wasn't back by lunchtime. Jimmy held off for ten extra minutes and waited in the office, but it didn't look like Thomas was going to make an appearance, so Jimmy slowly tidied his things and made his way to the café.

It was possible Thomas' meeting had run long, he told himself.

At lunch, Daisy leaned on her brush and haunted their table like a lovesick, house-proud ghost, while Alfred spoke in lowered tones about _capital _and _key performance indicators – _and, as he reached out and shyly took Daisy's hand between his – _de-privatization._

Daisy gasped. "Are – are you asking me to…? You _are! _D'you really mean it?"

Alfred, face sunset pink, glanced around. "Yeah. I do. We've got something special here, Daisy, I know it. I can…I can see us going _public_ – _Nugent and Mason's Jams and Preserves…_we could do it. What d'you say?_"_

Jimmy cast a quick look at Ivy to see how she was taking this – with the uncharitable thought that it might prove a distraction from him and Thomas – but to his surprise, she seemed hardly aware of what amounted to a sticky, strawberry-flavoured marriage proposal in Alfred's worldview. She was even more out of it than she had been at breakfast, a frown on her face as she stared straight at Jimmy. She barely seemed to have registered what Alfred had said. Her eyes searched Jimmy's, and this time, he was the one to look away.

Daisy's mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed again. "I – it's very sudden. And it's…a big commitment."

"Well, yeah, but – I don't think I'll ever want to see anyone else's name next to mine on a jam jar," Alfred said ("Well, strike up the violins," Jimmy muttered from his corner) "So – what d'you think?"

Daisy looked down at the floor before flicking her eyes up to meet Alfred's. "I think…" she said, with a tiny, uncertain smile, " – that, well, to be honest, I was sort of enjoying things bein'…_private_ – and…if it's all right…I'd like to keep on like that for a while. And then – in a couple of years…maybe…if – if we still feel the same, then…then you should ask me again."

The hopeful look on Alfred's face sagged, and he withdrew his hand from Daisy's – but immediately, she reached out and caught his wrist. "Just…remember," she said, "it's not a _no_. It's a _not yet. _After all, what's the rush?_"_

Alfred stared at her hand, circling his wrist, then licked his lips and said, "You know – speaking of – of _private_, there's this film on tonight. _Brief Encounter. _It's _an unforgettable story of forbidden love,_" he said, the painstaking choice of words suggesting that they had been carefully memorized. "Thought it might be – worth watching."

Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"I'd like that," Daisy said. "I've not been to the cinema in ages."

"Actually," Alfred said in a slightly strained voice, "it's on the telly. I just thought…it might be nice…and…" he swallowed, "…private…"

"…private," Daisy repeated. She nodded, a jerky motion.

"Sounds good," Ivy said vaguely, voice making both Alfred and Daisy jump. She didn't seem to notice that either, but she shook herself and tried to smile, though the faint frown could still be seen between her eyebrows. "We should ask Jimmy too – it's been ages since the four of us did something together."

Alfred and Daisy exchanged crushed glances, "Well, I thought" – Alfred began.

"Good," Ivy said. "That's settled, then. Jimmy – you'll watch that film with us tonight."

Jimmy opened his mouth to object, and she raised her eyebrows at him in silent challenge, "Unless, that is, you've got something else on?"

Jimmy closed his mouth.

"Good," Ivy said again, clinking the spoon in her cup.

* * *

Jimmy was in a horrible mood when he returned to the office, made even worse by the fact that Thomas had not yet returned. He opened the desk drawers with unnecessary violence as he considered Ivy.

_Oh Jimmy, I won't __tell__ anyone. I promise. _He made a face, because she might draw the line at _telling _people – but sticking her nose where it didn't belong and messing up his entire evening was just _fine_, apparently. It was _awkward. _How was he supposed to make things up to Thomas tonight if he was trapped between Alfred and Daisy on the sofa? Thomas might even think he was doing it deliberately – it might make things _worse._

He grabbed a pen and shoved the desk drawer closed. _Why couldn't she just keep out of it? _He would fix it, of course, but…

The crossness lingered until Thomas finally appeared. Jimmy said, "Didn't think you were coming back," though he knew the nonchalance of his words was contradicted by the way he'd found himself scrambling to his feet as soon as he saw Thomas.

"Well, you know how Carson is," Thomas said. "And then I had to speak with Mrs Hughes – turns out there's been a bit of trouble with one of the tour guides, three guesses who…" Jimmy smiled a bit, "…and after that, Crawley turned up out of the blue."

"Busy," he noted, and Thomas shrugged. He didn't sound upset, or angry…or anything really. But his eyes were doing that strange trick again – looking right at Jimmy, but without meeting his gaze.

Thomas made for his desk, but Jimmy insinuated himself in front of it. Thomas raised his eyebrows. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Yes," Jimmy said. "Look, it's – I don't know, it's Ivy, she's – kicking up about all this" –

Thomas stilled and Jimmy hastened to reassure him, "I don't think she's going to _say _anything," because he _didn't – _she had seemed painfully sincere yesterday, " – but she's making things awkward. I have to stay in tonight – watch this film with her and Alfred and Daisy – she wouldn't take no for an answer…" he trailed off, a little trepidatious as he waited for Thomas' response.

"All right," he said, in that same matter-of-fact tone. He shrugged. "That's not too bad."

And despite the fact that Thomas didn't sound upset, was taking it surprisingly well, Jimmy found himself pressing closer and slipping his fingers around Thomas' wrist, made daring by Thomas' nearness. "I could come by later though," he offered. "I could make up some excuse…pop round…"

His thumb rubbed absently against the base of Thomas' palm – and he realized that…he really _wanted_ to do it – and not just to make up for yesterday. He wanted to be with Thomas, even if it was just for an hour, or however long he could manage to snatch from the evening.

It was only _Daisy_ and _Alfred_, after all – it wouldn't exactly be a case of trying to get one over on Sherlock Holmes. And as for Ivy…well…he would think of _something_.

Thomas glanced down for a moment, but when he looked up he decided, "No, better not. Not if you think she's going to make a fuss."

Gently, he pulled his hand out of Jimmy's grasp. "You don't want to have to explain to Mrs Hughes," Thomas reminded him. Jimmy ignored him and grabbed his sleeve again. "Thomas," he said, "It's – this…it's all right, isn't it?"

It made him feel hot and exposed and uncertain to say the words, all of which he hated…but he had to ask. And he made himself look straight at Thomas as he waited for his answer.

"Of course," Thomas said, with an odd little smile like he couldn't understand why Jimmy would say something like that. He pulled his hand away again, and said, "Come to think of it, you could knock off early this evening, if you want."

"What? You're…telling me I can go home now?" Jimmy frowned.

"Well – no point in you hanging around...I plan on doing the same thing myself in a couple of minutes, after I stop by Mrs Hughes' office and get an update."

"Oh. Right." Jimmy tried to rally, "Well…I'll wait for you, then."

"There's no need, really." Thomas smiled that unnerving smile again, though it faded into something quieter when he said, "Might do us both a bit of good to take a break."

Jimmy studied him, but Thomas' face was perfectly composed, and it didn't _seem_ like he was playing the martyr. And honestly, Jimmy couldn't see Thomas _ever _defaulting to that particular strategy. Which left him with the unpleasant notion that Thomas was being sincere.

Maybe it was understandable given what had happened last night – Jimmy supposed none of Thomas' most fondly remembered nights had ended with the other party desperate to escape (the _Duke_ had probably chained himself to Thomas' bedpost – literally, maybe)…but Jimmy still felt a pang, that Thomas should suddenly need a break from _him_.

He would, he decided, with a kind of fierce affection, be _very _good to Thomas tomorrow, when he was rested and felt better.

He leaned in, and up. Thomas pulled back slightly and warned, "Mrs Hughes."

"Jimmy, actually," he said, and managed a smirk. "You _must_ be tired, Mr Barrow." He tilted forward again, and kissed Thomas, very softly and carefully.

And after the barest hesitation, Thomas kissed him back.

* * *

They made it about fifteen minutes into the film, which was an old black-and-white one, before Ivy disappeared into her bedroom to get her laptop. "Otherwise I'll just fall asleep."

"I'm sure something'll happen soon," Alfred said, though he squinted dubiously at the screen. "It's bound to. Mr Carson said it was the most romantic film he'd ever seen. Said it was impossible to watch it and not get swept away on a tide of longing" –

"Really?" Jimmy asked, tilting his head to the side as a tired-looking woman with wide worried eyes and a hideous hat sat in a café and narrated the non-events of her life. "Doesn't take much to get old Carson going, does it?"

Despite all that, and the fact that Daisy and Alfred seemed more than happy to be distracted by each other, leaning in close to each other and speaking in whispers, Jimmy kept half an eye on the film. If it was a classic (and if Carson had recommended it, it was bound to be) then Thomas would know all about it. Thomas tended to be a bit elitist and snobby about films – he made fun of everything, but behind that, there was a sense that the mere fact of something being in black and white made it somehow better than a film with a set that didn't wobble and decent special effects.

Apparently, the highlight of this dull woman's life was going to be the day a piece of _grit _landed in her eye. Idly, Jimmy began to store up all the most ridiculous snippets of dialogue in his head, to tease Thomas with later.

A few minutes later, Ivy made a little sound of surprise and said, "Look, Alfred – Zoe finally emailed on those pictures she took at the wedding –remember?"

She turned her laptop around on her knees – but though Daisy got an odd, frozen look on her face, Alfred didn't seem very interested at all.

"Oh yeah," he said vaguely.

Ivy's smile wavered and Jimmy actually felt a bit sorry for her. "It was a nice night, that's all," she mumbled. She began to swing her laptop back around, and as she did, Jimmy caught sight of the screen for a second.

"Hang on a minute," he said, "What's that?" He abandoned the television (he was watching the most boring characters in the history of celluloid as _they_ _watched a film), _and turned Ivy's pink laptop around again. "What d'you mean? It's just pictures of the wedding – I told you."

"Yeah, but - this?" Jimmy's finger pointed right at Alfred, who seemed to have been captured in the middle of an epileptic fit. He glanced at the real thing. "What are you _doing?_"

"What?" Alfred asked, slightly defensively.

"We were dancing," Ivy said.

"Maybe _you_ were," Jimmy conceded, "I don't know what_ he _was doing."

Ivy pressed her lips together, fighting a smile, but she said, "It weren't that bad."

"Really? Because by the looks of it, you were lucky to get off that dance floor in one piece."

"All right, all right," Alfred said, cheeks a bit red. "No need to go on about it - it's just dancing."

"No, I think we've established that whatever you were doing is _not _dancing. Not by any stretch of the imagination." Jimmy was suddenly enjoying the night a great deal more than he had been.

Alfred went on the offensive – "Well? So what? It's not like anyone even _needs_ to know how to dance these days."

"Yeah," Daisy chimed in loyally. "It's not like it's all that important, really."

"Not important?" Jimmy scoffed. "Of course it's _important"_ –

Alfred attempted dismissiveness, face still red. "Yeah? For what?"

"Well, for one thing, it helps develop a sense of natural rhythm…which _some _of us find comes in handy on occasion."

Briefly, last night flashed through his mind – Thomas above him, each rock of his hips lighting up Jimmy's body from the inside out.

"Oh yes, very _rare _occasions," Alfred mumbled. "Once in a blue moon, more like."

Jimmy was careful not to look at Ivy. Instead, he smirked at Alfred and got to his feet. He swept his hand toward Daisy with exaggerated formality and said, "Care to show Alfred how it's done, Daisy?"

"What – now?" she said, which made him retort in exasperation, "Well I don't mean in two months time," which slightly spoiled the smooth effect he had been going for.

"But there's no room," she pointed out.

"Ivy – find us a song," Jimmy said, as he pushed the small coffee table out of the way – just like Thomas had last night (though he cut off that line of thought ruthlessly). He motioned to Daisy again, who looked at Alfred, and then got to her feet with an unflattering touch of reluctance. After all, _Jimmy _wasn't the one who was going to break all her toes in this scenario.

A tinny beat began to issue from Ivy's speakers, and Jimmy wasted no time in pulling Daisy in close –she stumbled slightly, as if she hadn't expected it, but she still ended up pressed right up against his chest, his arm curled around her waist. She blinked at him, surprised, and he took her right hand in his left. There was a strangled yelp of protest from the couch, which Jimmy ignored in favour of smiling at Daisy and saying, as politely and charmingly as he knew how, "Shall we?"

Daisy looked up at him and said, a bit breathlessly, "Oh…go on then."

He waited for a second, getting the feel of the music, and then began to move. And after only a moment of uncertainty, Daisy relaxed into his hold and they found their rhythm. She was light on her feet, and followed his lead easily – he kept it simple for a few minutes, just moving in time to whatever disposable love song Ivy had chosen. He swayed with Daisy from side to side while the singer crooned, '_Oh you're the only one…oh, oh, it's only you for me_…' It was nothing fancy, but he knew they looked good – like they fit. _Natural rhythm_, he thought smugly in Alfred's direction. _Not such a waste of time now, is it? _Then he pulled Daisy even closer before spinning her out, and then back in again, showing off a little.

_Thomas_ had natural rhythm, he thought – not that Jimmy was planning on whisking him around the ballrooms of Yorkshire anytime soon. It would probably feel strange to dance with Thomas, no matter how perfectly their bodies moved when they were lying together, naked and touching. Though _that_ was just another kind of dance, Jimmy thought, as he whirled Daisy one more time – it was every dance stripped down into its truest form, really.

He finally released Daisy as the music died away. She laughed and when Ivy clapped, Jimmy bowed. Alfred sat with his arms crossed over his chest and mumbled, "All right – it's not that impressive."

"Just because _you_ can't tell your left foot from your right – that's no reason to go putting down those of us who can," Jimmy said, and he turned to Daisy and said, "D'you want a drink, Daisy?"

"I suppose I am a bit thirsty," Daisy said, and Jimmy guided her into the kitchen, an ostentatiously solicitous hand at the small of her back. Alfred followed, and as Jimmy handed Daisy a glass of water, he said, hesitantly, "Daisy – I…don't suppose you'd mind showing me a few steps…when you've got the time?"

"Oh – you've changed your tune," Jimmy said. "I thought no-one _needed _to know how to dance these days?"

"Well, they don't," Alfred said, a spot of furious colour in each cheek, "But I was just thinking…it might come in handy…sometime." He cleared his throat and turned to Daisy again. "So…what do you say?"

Daisy stared up at him, but before she could answer, Jimmy said, "I suppose Daisy and I could be persuaded to give you a demonstration sometime." He let his arm creep around her back and tapped his hand against her hip, out of Alfred's sight. Daisy looked at him questioningly for a moment, before her eyes widened and she finally got the message.

It was obvious that even if Daisy _had_ forgiven Alfred for all those months of coming in a distant second to Ivy…she hadn't quite_ forgotten_, because she said, "Oh…yes. _We_ could show you what to do." Her eyes held Jimmy's, as if she half-expected him to object. "You can arrange it with Jimmy, Alfred. If you're still keen, that is."

Of course Jimmy _didn't_ object, because Alfred-baiting, while not exactly intellectually _taxing, _was always amusing.

Daisy smiled before walking out of the kitchen, spine straight and shoulders back, and he felt a small glow of satisfaction only tangentially unrelated to Alfred's misery at the sight. Daisy was all right.

Alfred, though he had come to this same opinion at a glacial pace, was obviously very firmly of the same mind, because as soon as Daisy had disappeared from sight, he said, "You shouldn't lead her on like that, you know. It's not kind."

"Who says I'm leading her on?" Jimmy said, because really, Alfred had been _appallingly _oblivious, and that deserved a rap across the knuckles at the very least – and if Jimmy had to be the one to wield the ruler…well, virtue was its own reward, as they said.

Alfred gaped before his face settled into rigid, unflattering lines. "I'm not going to let you hurt her."

"Why? Don't tell me _you're_ the only one allowed to hurt Daisy's feelings – that's a bit selfish, isn't it?" Jimmy said.

Alfred drew an indignant breath in, but, possibly because it was impossible to rebut Jimmy's point, he settled for repeating, "I won't let you hurt her," before backing out of the kitchen, almost walking into Ivy, who was standing in the doorway. She lingered there for a moment before making her way in to stand opposite Jimmy, forehead creased in thought.

Jimmy threw back his head, finishing off his water, and then put the glass down on the sideboard. The last thing he wanted was to spend time alone with Ivy right now – especially when she had a look like that on her face. But to his surprise, when she spoke, it wasn't to say anything he'd expected.

"You did look good together, you know – you and Daisy." Obviously, she'd been in that doorway for a while. She watched her fingers as they trailed along the counter. "Might be worth thinking about, actually."

Jimmy frowned. "What?"

"Taking her out," Ivy said, and shrugged. "Like I said…it looked like you were having fun."

He stared at her in disbelief. "You think I should _ask Daisy out_?"

"I'm only saying."

"Oh _yes_. Of course. Funny thing though," he mused, "That'd leave the field clear for you to throw yourself at Alfred, wouldn't it? So, thanks for the offer - but not everyone is like you…some of us don't _want_ to play runner-up."

Ivy stared at him steadily for a long, quiet moment. "That was just _nasty_, Jimmy Kent."

He looked off to the side. He _wasn't _going to apologise.

"Besides, if _anyone _knows all about playing _runner up_" – she stopped suddenly.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded, turning back to her.

She shook her head, though it seemed directed more toward herself than Jimmy. "No. I'm _not_ doing that." She squared herself and looked at him again. "Look, if it's not Daisy – if it's _blokes_, then…well, Maria's husband's cousin's friend is gay…his name's Ernest, or Emmett, or Evan, or something. I could get his number for you. And – there's places you can go, too, if that doesn't work out. I mean, maybe not Ripon, but…London's not the end of the world, and – and I'd go with you…if you wanted."

Jimmy could feel his mouth dropping open – and he hastily shut it. "You want me to _what – _start picking up blokes in bars? Because you think I'm _gay?" _

"It's not just a matter of just _thinking _though, is it?" Ivy said, though she lowered her voice still further. "Considering what I've seen."

"Well what _I _see right now is someone who needs to mind her own business," Jimmy whispered furiously. He had an almost overpowering urge to try out one of Thomas' most succinct snubs – _I'm not your pet queer. _He could remember Thomas aiming that at _him_ before, though it felt as if he only truly understood it _now_…but of course, he didn't say it. It sounded a bit too much like he was admitting to actually being gay, or something.

Still, he was filled with a kind of indignation, both at being viewed as some kind of _project_, and, strangely, at Ivy's callous treatment of Thomas. He'd _told her _he was doing this _for Thomas_…and her immediate response was to encourage Jimmy to go behind his back and start seeing other people?

It was both of these factors that provoked him into saying, "And – even if it _was _true…I don't need your _help_. It's not as if I'm sat in front of the television twiddling my thumbs every night." Even that oblique reference to Thomas made a wash of heat rise to his face, but he tried to school his features into impassivity.

"I just…think you should be aware that – you've got other options," Ivy said, very carefully, almost as if she were stepping _around _the words. "I mean – this thing with Thomas…well, it's not going to _last_, is it?"

It felt as if he'd been hit, very hard and without warning, in the stomach. "You can't _say_ that," he heard someone say.

"Why not?" Ivy said. "It's true, isn't it? That _this – _whatever you're doing with him…it's all just for show, a distraction, to take his mind off his troubles? I mean…that _is_ what you told me."

He could hardly breathe. He knew how unlikely it was, but all he could think was – if she said that…if she said anything _like that_ in front of Thomas…it would slice him into bits. He could imagine Thomas' hurt at hearing the words _so _clearly that it felt like the pain belonged to Jimmy himself.

"That doesn't mean you can go around _saying _it," he managed to say, through the ache he felt on Thomas' behalf. "If Thomas _heard _you, he'd be – it'd…upset him. So you _can't_ _say_ things like that."

"But that's just it, Jimmy," Ivy said. She looked at him with an odd mixture of worry and pity. "_I'm_ not the one saying it. _Mr Barrow_ is."

"What?"

"He took me aside first thing this morning," Ivy told him. "Said he hoped I wasn't going to mention anything about yesterday to anyone…because – because there was nothing worth telling. That it – that _he_ was just…having a bit of fun, and it didn't mean anything, not really." She looked straight at him, unbearably sympathetic. "He said the whole thing was just a distraction, and it'd probably run its course soon enough."

His chest squeezed unbearably tight. "Well of _course_ he said that," Jimmy said. "Of _course_ he was going to play it down – he was trying to get you to keep your mouth shut."

Ivy's eyes were very soft. "…thing is, he was very convincing."

"It was an act," Jimmy told her. "You don't even know him – _I_ do, and I'm _telling_ you, it was all an act."

"Not that it would matter if it wasn't, right?" Ivy said. "I mean…since that's the way _you_ feel and all."

She gazed at him for a long moment.

"It was an act," he said again.

"If you say so." She didn't sound convinced. "But…just think about it – asking Daisy, I mean. And…I'll get that Evan or Edmond's number from Maria. Just in case."

* * *

Of _course_ it was an act. Jimmy had gone back into the living room and watched the rest of _Brief Encounter_, paying careful attention to the stupid plot (not that there _was_ much of a plot), because tomorrow night, he was going to make fun of this ridiculous film with Thomas.

He didn't once look over at Ivy, though he could feel her eyes like lasers on the side of his face. The word 'gay' came up several times during the course of the film, in the most old-fashioned, innocent sense…and each time, Jimmy felt his mouth jerk, before he resolutely straightened it back into a neutral line, frustrated to be giving Ivy what she would no doubt see as _ammunition_.

He found it a bit hard to get to sleep, afterwards, when everyone had gone to bed…but that didn't mean anything. It had been a stressful couple of days. It was bound to catch up with him sooner or later.

And the next morning he hardly spoke to Ivy at breakfast, passing her the orange juice in silence when she asked for it. Alfred messily ate cereal while also glaring at Jimmy, presumably as part of his 'won't-let-you-hurt-Daisy' masterplan. Perhaps he was trying to disgust Jimmy into inaction, given that three times out of seven, his unwavering focus on Jimmy resulting in the spoon missing his mouth.

So it was another silent breakfast.

* * *

He felt a sharp twist of relief when he finally made it to the office. Like yesterday, Thomas looked up and smiled at him – and if he looked away from Jimmy almost immediately…well…that wasn't _important _in any way, and it shouldn't make Jimmy feel uneasy.

So it didn't.

Actually, it was a _good _sign. Thomas was trying to be cautious, for once. To do just as Jimmy had said, and keep what happened between them separate to work. Obviously, being caught by Ivy had had an effect on him as well...even if it didn't really seem like the kind of thing that would affect Thomas at all. It didn't make _much_ sense, but _Ivy's _explanation made none at all…so it had to be the case.

Sometimes small incidents had an unreasonable impact on people. It was just the way things were. It wasn't anything to _worry_ about.

Really, Jimmy should have been encouraging this new professionalism – but, just before he was due to go to lunch, his feet, acting almost against his will, approached Thomas' desk. He waited until Thomas looked up, with that mild, querying look that made Jimmy feel bizarrely as if they had only recently been introduced…but that was nothing to _worry _about either. Just strange.

"I'm going to the café in a minute," Jimmy said, and Thomas raised his eyebrows, waiting. Jimmy forced himself to smile. "I was wondering if you wanted anything,"

"I'm fine, thank you," Thomas said, and picked up his pen. Jimmy waited for him to look up again, but he didn't, even though he had to be aware that Jimmy hadn't moved. So finally, Jimmy said, lowering his voice, "I can come over tonight."

Thomas did look up then. He paused. "I don't think that's a good idea right now."

Jimmy felt an ice-water splash of apprehension. "If it's Ivy you're worried about, don't be," he lied with assurance. "I've sorted all that out."

Thomas turned the pen between his fingers. "Still," he said, "Probably better to wait until things have settled a bit," and punctuated it with one of those nothing-smiles, as if he were turning down Jimmy's suggestion at a staff meeting, instead of –

"Right," Jimmy said, and even though he couldn't feel his feet, they were obviously still working, because they carried him straight out of the office.

* * *

He didn't go to the café after all, because he didn't want to _look_ at Ivy just then, let alone make conversation. She was still _wrong _of course, but he couldn't stand the thought of sitting across from her, while she _thought things _about him and Thomas. _Wrong_ things. So instead he wandered aimlessly through the halls and paced up and down a disused corridor near the archive room, just waiting out his lunch-break. His stomach felt like a wrung out dishcloth– he wasn't even hungry.

Thomas was doing this because of what had happened two nights ago.

Jimmy knew it. Thomas' strange behavior…his sudden withdrawal…it was all down to what had happened last time Jimmy had(n't) stayed with him.

Thomas wasn't acting like it didn't matter because _it didn't matter_ - he was acting like that because of what Jimmy had done. _Hadn't_ done. Underneath that blandly polite façade, Thomas was angry, maybe – or upset. But he wasn't _indifferent. _He _couldn't be _indifferent. It wouldn't make _sense._

If he asked Thomas…that was exactly what Thomas would say. Of course, he wasn't _going _to ask, because…because…

…well, he just wasn't. It wasn't like he _needed _to talk to Thomas – it would be a, a waste of time, when Thomas would obviously just confirm his suspicions. He simply didn't _want _to talk to Thomas about it. It wasn't fear.

Thomas wasn't _tired _of him. (" – _nothing worth telling"). _Or…if it seemed like he _was_…well then…maybe he was just tired of dealing with Jimmy's _limitations. _

_That_ was…understandable, really. He should've _planned_ for it. Thomas was _so _self-assured and – and _experienced _with…sex. Being with men. _("I take it I'm the first bloke you've ever…" – _Jimmy shook his head to clear it_). _

The point was, Thomas had already _done _everything – every part of it, and more than once. Looking at it like that, he was _bound _to get tired of inexpert handjobs and coaxing Jimmy to try things that – that Thomas probably thought of as _standard _in this kind of situation_. _Of course he was going to be fed up with having to calm Jimmy down and talk him round every time Thomas tried to expand his sexual horizons. Jimmy really should have _known _this was going to happen.

(He hadn't though).

(He hadn't even _guessed, _although – _"I take it I'm the first bloke you've ever…" – _he really _should have_).

Well. He swallowed down the twinge in his throat. That didn't matter now. It was no use getting out a magnifying glass and going over every little detail of a situation – not when that wasn't going to _change_ anything. No. Jimmy just had to _fix it, _as quickly as possible.

He knew exactly what he had to do, too. He just didn't know _how_ to go about it, not when Thomas was in this odd, balking mood and had specifically told him not to come by later.

* * *

And then, the answer dropped into his lap. Or, to be more specific, it landed on Thomas' desk. Because fifteen minutes later, he came back to the office to find Thomas gone (what a surprise), and Mr Carson's monthly report on the desk. To the extreme left side of the desk, in actual fact…and Jimmy could see it all quite clearly in his head – Mr Carson stopping by the office, finding no-one there, and leaving the report to save himself a return journey.

Jimmy stared at the tan manila folder. Of course…it might not have happened like that at all, he conceded. It was just as likely that Thomas had been in when Mr Carson knocked…and it was more than possible – quite _probable_ in fact – that Thomas had purposely set the report aside, a little needle to delicately jab at Mr Carson's status.

If he was wrong, it would be embarrassing at best, completely humiliating at worst. It would be better to leave it, just in case.

He took the folder and hid it under his coat.

* * *

Of course, there _was _some trouble, but the spotlight-beam of blame firmly bypassed Jimmy, without his having to do anything at all – as Mr Carson, Mrs Hughes and Thomas stood, almost squashed together in the tiny office, and tried to trace the missing report.

"I could have _sworn _I placed it right here," Mr Carson said, laying the tips of his fingers against the exact spot the folder had rested. Jimmy tapped industriously at his computer.

"Well it's not there now," Thomas told him.

"And you're sure you didn't see it?" Mr Carson pressed.

"It'd be hard to see it, when it's not _there_."

Mr Carson's eye rolled to the side, his lack of appreciation for Thomas' input palpable.

"James – you didn't see the report, did you? I put it here…I'm sure I did…"

"I can't say I noticed it, Mr Carson," Jimmy said, pairing the words with his best blank look (copied from Alfred – it was a minor masterpiece of willing, sprinkled liberally with ineptitude).

"I could have sworn…" Mr Carson said again.

"Well, don't worry about it – it probably wasn't that important, anyway," Thomas said, insult poorly disguised under a thin wrapping of comfort.

"Vital information pertaining to the running of this estate…is 'not important'?"

Mr Carson's eyes ate into him like acid, but Thomas seemed unaffected.

"We seem to be doing all right so far," he said.

"What Thomas is _saying_," Mrs Hughes said, "is that it's been a busy few weeks, and whether we read the report today or tomorrow probably won't make a great deal of difference." Her tone whiplashed from soothing to something more severe as she said, "Isn't that _right_, Thomas?"

Thomas maintained a judicious silence.

"And Mr Carson, if you're as worried as all that, why don't you just print out another copy of the report and we can" – she trailed off. "What is it?"

"I'm afraid…I may have left it on my – personal computer." Mr Carson looked oddly shifty.

"From which I deduce that you are still bringing work home," Mrs Hughes said, with the kind of calm that concealed Loch Ness monsters beneath the surface.

"May I point out that it has been an exceptionally busy few weeks?" Mr Carson said stiffly.

"Might _I _point out that neither I nor his Lordship will thank you for running yourself into the ground?" Mrs Hughes retorted. "Well – we shall just have to wait until tomorrow then…and serves you right, if you don't mind my saying so. No wonder you can't remember where you've left things – it's a miracle you're functioning at all when you've put yourself under this kind of stress."

Jimmy bent his head over his screen and continued to type.

* * *

Thomas left the office first that evening. Jimmy heard him gathering his things, and pushing in his chair. Jimmy stared blindly at the page in front of him, and hit keys at random. He didn't look up and so he was startled when Thomas said, lightly, "Don't tell me you're staying."

"Just another few minutes – to finish this," Jimmy said, indicating the page of nonsense in front of him.

For one brief shining moment, his eyes caught Thomas' and he thought that Thomas was going to offer to stay with him, but then Thomas said, "Well – I'll leave you to lock up then."

Jimmy made himself nod. "All right." And he could have _asked, _just then…he _knew_ he could. And Thomas would have waited, and walked him out, and then taken him home…of _course_ he would. But something stopped him, squeezing his throat shut. It wasn't _fear, _it was just –

Well. It wasn't fear.

Thomas left and Jimmy took his time closing down his computer and tidying odds and ends around the office. Although it probably looked aimless from the outside, it was anything but.

The truth was, ever since he'd come to his lunchtime realization, it felt like determination was pulsing through his veins instead of blood. It caused a buzzing in his ears, and cast a kind of haze over everything inconsequential, making it impossible for him to concentrate on anything except what he knew he needed to do. It was a driving instinctive force, propelling him onwards, prompting him to steal folders and maintain an air of calm, even as every fibre of his being had narrowed to a single point of focus.

Finally, once half an hour had eventually crawled by, Jimmy picked up his coat, concealing the manila folder underneath, walked out of Downton, and drove to Thomas' house.

* * *

Thomas' hand stretched across the doorframe when he finally answered Jimmy's knock. It was probably a casual gesture, but it looked rather he was trying to bar Jimmy entrance. This impression was not softened by the way that he held most of his body behind the door, like it was a shield.

"What are you" – he began to say, but Jimmy brandished the manila folder and his best smile and said, "Alfred found it."

Thomas' eyes flickered briefly down, and then up again. "Where was it?" he asked.

"Staff kitchen," Jimmy said. "Mr Carson must've gone down to make himself a cup of tea, and left it there. Alfred said it was on top of the fridge."

"That's not like him," Thomas mused, but even as Jimmy's heart gave an awkward leap, he decided, "He _must_ be losing it."

Jimmy smiled again, non-committally, and there was a very obvious pause. "Well – thanks for bringing it by," Thomas said finally, reaching out for the folder.

Jimmy kept a firm grip on it and tilted his head. "What – you're not going to invite me in? After all that?"

"After all _what_?" Thomas responded, sounding a bit more like himself. "You dropped off a folder on your way home. _You_ didn't even find the thing, _Alfred _did."

"So…I don't even rate a cup of tea?" Jimmy interrupted. It was important to keep the amusement on his face and in his voice – keep this _light, _for once. "Where _are _your manners?"

There was the barest hesitation, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it softening of his defensive stance – but that was all Jimmy needed, and he was pushing past Thomas and into the hall.

"…no, really, make yourself at home…put your feet up…" Thomas muttered, clearly taken aback.

Jimmy smiled brightly. "Don't mind if I do – and I'll take you up on that cup of tea while I'm at it."

* * *

He had quite a limited time-frame to work in, so when Thomas brought the tea into the sitting room (Jimmy had ensconced himself on the sofa and feigned deafness when Thomas had mentioned adjourning to the kitchen), he'd thought it best to work fast. Accordingly, he'd accepted the cup from Thomas, taken a sip, smiled and said, "Just how I like it – thank you," (a lie – Thomas hadn't put enough milk in), put the cup down, and kissed him. Thomas was still holding his own cup and it shook audibly on the saucer at this turn of events.

"Why don't we put that away?" Jimmy asked solicitously, when he pulled back. He reached out, but Thomas' fingers gripped both items so tightly his knuckles were white.

"I don't," he swallowed, and the cup rattled against the saucer again. A little tea slopped over the side of the cup. "I don't think this is a good idea, Jimmy."

"Oh?" Jimmy asked. "Why not?" And he swooped forward and kissed Thomas before he could answer.

This time, he barely drew back, and he said, in a voice that was almost a whisper, "Sorry – I don't think I caught that." He didn't take his eyes off Thomas, but his fingers took hold of the cup and saucer. This time Thomas didn't object. _Sleight of hand, _Jimmy thought in triumph as he set Thomas' tea down, careful not to spill it. He straightened and put his hand on Thomas' knee. "Maybe you could run it by me one more time?"

"Jimmy" – Thomas began.

This time, Jimmy kept kissing him until Thomas' mouth started to move against his, and he felt Thomas' hands on his hips, tugging him nearer.

Ten minutes later and both cups of tea were cooling on the coffee-table, while Jimmy was flat on his back on the couch with Thomas above him, and kissing messily, tongues tangled together and bodies pressed right up against each other – and it still wasn't _close enough _for Jimmy – he found himself straining to get somehow impossibly closer, rucking up Thomas' shirt, and wrapping his right arm tightly across Thomas' back, while his left hand fumbled with the fastenings to Thomas' trousers.

Thomas sucked on the skin just below his ear, and Jimmy's body jerked upwards. One of Thomas' hands curled around his ribcage, and the other clutched Jimmy's left leg, thumb stroking the inside of his thigh. He was breathing heavily and kissing Jimmy back just as hard as Jimmy was kissing him, like he just couldn't _help_ himself and Jimmy felt that awful itch beneath his skin finally disappear, because of _course _Thomas wanted him, and anything that suggested otherwise was just an _act_ – no matter how convincing –

Jimmy finally succeeded in insinuating his hand into Thomas' trousers, and stroked his cock through his underwear – which made Thomas groan – before withdrawing his hand altogether (which made Thomas groan ever harder). But before he had a chance to raise any more coherent objection, Jimmy wriggled downwards on the sofa slightly. He made sure to make, and keep eye contact with Thomas as he spread his legs before wrapping them, slowly and deliberately, around Thomas' hips.

Thomas went very still, and a surge of apprehensive anticipation jolted through Jimmy.

"Jimmy…" Thomas said, staring down at him with searching eyes.

"If you want," Jimmy said, and attempted a casual shrug. It was odd – even as his heart banged against the walls of his chest – part of him felt strangely calm. But then…he'd never had any doubt that he _would_ do this, not since the first moment it had occurred to him, in the hallway off the archive room. The idea of _not _following through had never even crossed his mind. If letting Thomas – fuck him - was what he had to do…well, he could _do_ that.

He found a small smile, and looked up at Thomas, waiting.

Only for Thomas to scramble off him almost immediately, breaking their connection and shoving backwards until there was no contact between them at all. It took a full second for Jimmy to realize exactly what had happened, and by the time he pushed himself into an upright position, Thomas was leaning forward on the far end of the sofa, and pulling out a (now slightly squashed) packet of cigarettes from his right trouser pocket, along with his lighter.

"What is it?" Jimmy asked, shuffling closer on the couch. Thomas' body remained angled away from his, and he didn't answer right away. It was only after he lit his cigarette that he said, again, and without even bothering to look at Jimmy, "It's really not a good idea."

Jimmy rubbed his hands along the fabric of his trousers – mostly because he was afraid they were shaking and didn't want to hold them still long enough to find out. He was suddenly far more apprehensive than he had been a few seconds ago, when he'd been sure Thomas was going to…_do it to him. _Fuck him.

But it was important – _crucial _– to hide his trepidation…it felt like if he just didn't acknowledge it, then maybe the sick feeling in his stomach would cease to exist. So, as lightly as he could he said, "Careful – you keep acting like this, and I'll think you're giving me the brush off."

Thomas took a deep drag off his cigarette before exhaling a long, steady stream of smoke.

Finally he said, "You're a bright lad…I knew you'd catch on sooner or later."


End file.
